


Who Prays for The Devil?

by Bourneblack



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A realistic approach to pre-serum Steve's health issues, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate universe - Mafia, Angst, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes is built like a brick house, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Crack Treated Seriously, Def Not, Explicit Sexual Content, Flexible Steve Rogers, Fluff, Hilarity, Hospitals, Identity Porn, M/M, Mafia Bucky, Misunderstandings, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Size Difference, Smut, Steve Roger's Health Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Which is well marked, also a stripper, candid discussions of health issues, one use of the f-slur, some killing, steve misses his mom, the holy trinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bourneblack/pseuds/Bourneblack
Summary: When Steve Rogers does something nice for the wife of one of the largest Russian mafia families, Winifred sends her son, James Buchanan Barnes, to offer him a 'favor' in return. But Steve, who is incapable of seeing the bad in anyone, ends up missing the fact that Bucky's in the mafia entirely and thinks that this brick house of a man wants to go on a date. Bucky, finding this clueless yet confident coffee shop owner refreshing and adorable, decides to give it a shot.What blooms is a lovely romance between the two, where Steve is constantly surprised that they always have the best seats at restaurants, that Bucky seems to know everyone in Little Odessa, and that Bucky has a crap ton of guns in his apartment. But why do all of Steve's friends go pale when Bucky comes around? How does Natasha know Bucky? And when Steve's health starts to get in the way, how far will Bucky go to make things right?*A mafia AU slams into  a coffee shop AU, and out pops a cracky, fluffy, smutty, and angsty identity porn fic between son-of-a-mafia boss Bucky Barnes and clueless coffee shop owner Steve Rogers that takes a brief look into the bowels of the American healthcare system.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Steve Rogers/Other(s)
Comments: 901
Kudos: 2101
Collections: My Favourite Stucky





	1. A Brush with The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Hello it's me! I had a lot of health scares in the past 7 months, to include a spinal fluid leak, a TIA (small stroke), a broken rib and a concussion. Physically, I'm okay, but mentally, I'm still reeling. In order to process, I've taken a lot of focus off of my WIPS (Piano man and Wrecking Balls 2) and started writing this story to help get through the pain of dealing with hospitals and insurance and emotional garbage, and to find as many ways as I can to get a massively built Bucky Barnes to bury it in pre-serum Steve.
> 
> This story is cracky, and steamy, and sweet, and a little sad but a lot of fun. There will be about 12 chapters. 8 of those have already been written and are currently being beta'd. Some chapters may have individual warnings, but everything you need to know should be already tagged. I should update once a week. 
> 
> Don't consider my other stories abandoned! I need to get this one out of my head, so I can process my own mental garbage and approach the others with more vigor.
> 
> Pre-serum Steve's health issues were taken from the enlistment form the doctor filled out during Captain America 1. You'll figure them out soon enough, but since it's a common trope that Steve is colorblind, I want everyone to know that here he is not.
> 
> The Russian translations are my best effort, but not perfect! Please let me know if you know something better that works <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this!

# Chapter 1: A Brush with the Devil

Steve jerks the handle of his suitcase for the umpteenth time, cursing as the top left wheel gets stuck in place again and skids against the airport floor.

He’s half-running, half-walking, full-on wheezing across the terminal, not realizing that international flights _to_ the US board almost an hour before takeoff until _after_ he got in the coffee shop line. It’s his first international flight ever (second, counting the flight here), and he’s learned, quite fast, that a lot more work goes into it than he thought. He moans as he sees yet another security checkpoint set up at the gates entrance, a bright red sign reading: NO LIQUIDS.

He gazes longing at his unfinished Frappuccino before taking one last, reverent sip and dumping it in the trash. What is it with countries and their fear of liquids?

He hands his shiny new passport with all of one stamp and his boarding pass to the falsely cheerful attendant. She scans it, then points him towards a line of serious looking security guards.

“Any liquids, sir?” The woman behind the table asks as she does a cursory dig through Steve’s unmentionables.

Steve thinks about his Frappuccino. “No,” he says morosely.

He eventually gets his stuff back and enters the plane. He thumbs the pass uncertainly, then hands it to the flight attendant, who leads him past business class and to the first row of economy, in the exit row.

As a small thank you for visiting, his Aunts and Uncles in Dublin offered to upgrade his ticket home. He steadfastly refused when he looked up the price that would be – already the flight is nearly $800, he’s not spending a thousand more – and after hours of polite arguments, they’d settled on an upgraded seat at the front of coach.

Steve smiles warmly at the memories of his trip to Ireland. It was the first time seeing his mother’s side of the family since she passed away a few years back. Sarah Rogers was a first generation Irish Immigrant, and while she brought Steve up as American, she tried to keep her Irish roots. After she died, her relatives had been adamant on seeing Steve, so Steve cobbled together all the could from his uneven art sales and the small, steady income from the coffee shop he owned and ran, and managed to get himself a flight to Ireland to see them.

Despite it being a hassle to get there, it was completely worth it to bask in the memories of his mother and hear her native tongue again, even if he didn’t remember more than a few words.

“Your seat, sir,” the flight attendant says kindly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put your bag in the overhead bin as there is no seat in front of you.

Steve doesn’t mind, and he settles in for the ride. Though he doesn’t need the legroom, being only five foot [REDACTED] inches, his back pain flares up if he sits too long, and the space in front of him is large enough to stand up if he needs it.

He’s lucky there’s no one in the middle seat. He’s in the window, and in the aisle sits an elderly woman with curly brown hair and a serious expression, choosing not to return Steve’s smile and greeting. Steve shrugs it off as he settles into his seat. Maybe she’s having a bad day.

The woman pulls out a bag of pistachios and starts to shell them, and Steve reflexively glances at his phone, checking his email, despite knowing he’s not paying eight bucks for internet on the flight home.

They eventually get around to taxiing and taking off, and Steve wonders, not for the first time, how a thing like this is capable of flight. Planes always made him think of a bird that’s been frozen mid-flight, that someone found and strapped an engine to and launched across the sky. It’s a silly picture, and Steve aches for his sketch pad. When the seatbelt sign clicks off, he jumps up to retrieve it from the overhead bin, with minor difficulty.

As he’s digging through his bag, the woman in the aisle seat says something sharply in a language he doesn’t recognize, before he hears the sound of something scattering across the floor.

Steve looks down to see that she’s accidentally spilled her bag of pistachio shells in front of the seat, and she was struggling slowly, trying to reach them.

Steve jumps to it without a second thought. He helps collect the shells in hand and pour them back into the bag, going so far as to get on his hands and knees and dig under the seat for the ones that had fallen there.

When he finishes, the woman is looking at him in surprise and gratitude, and says something in… Russian? But not quite, as it doesn’t sound like anything Natasha has ever said before.

Steve just blushes and says, “you’re welcome, happy to help,” and settles back in his seat to start his silly sketch. He doesn’t emerge from his art stupor until the drink cart arrives, and he orders a glass of wine while the woman next to him points at the orange juice.

They are served and Steve pops the tray table out of the weird side compartment it’s in. He spares a glance at the woman next to him and realizes she’s struggling with this too, so, with no preamble, he walks over and helps her. She says the same thing she said earlier in not-quite-Russian, which Steve assumes is a thank you, so he smiles and nods again.

Steve’s gone from silly sketches to a hyper realistic sketch of three birds in a tree when the food is served. Steve glances over to see if his new friend is okay, then frowns when he notices her struggling with the wrappers.

“Can I?” He speaks more with his hands than his words, and she hands him the package immediately, and he opens it for her with a smile. He looks down at her tray and realizes that everything this plan is in some sort of packaging, even the forks. Steve eventually ends up moving to the seat in the middle for the meal service, opening packages of food and spreading her napkin for her so she could enjoy her meal.

The woman is very grateful in her body language, and catches a glimpse of his weird bird-plane sketches and starts to laugh. Steve grins to himself as he pours cream and sugar into her tea.

The flight continues in that same vein, Steve reaching over to help her with her tray, help assist her to the bathroom, which is only a few feet away, and even helping her grab her cane and bag when they skid to a stop at JFK.

He places her belongings on the middle seat for her, and tries to figure out how to ask if she needs help leaving. By now her serious expression had been replaced with a smile, and laugh lines had crinkled up around her eyes when Steve drew her a few more sketches during the flight.

She shakes her head when Steve offers to help her out, so he assumes she knows how the wheelchair service works. Steve’s almost sad to leave her—the flight was a lot better with someone else there, even this woman he doesn’t know. But before he’s able to go, she grabs his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, and says, “Name!”

Steve blinks, startled at the sudden word.

The woman slaps his arm. “Name! Name! Name!”

“Me?” Steve says stupidly. “Um, I’m Steve Rogers,” he says.

“Steve!” She says, the she grabs his face in her hands and pulls him forward, guiding him to kiss her on both her cheeks.

Steve blushes and smiles shyly, but before he can ask for hers, she says something that makes him lift both his eyebrows to the ceiling.

“Gay?” She asks.

“Uh… um…” Steve stammers. How the hell does she know ‘ _gay_ ,’ of all words, in English? She can’t really mean happy, right?

Steve glances around quickly. No one is really paying them much attention since the line to leave has started to sluggishly move forward.

“Steve. Gay?!” She reiterates, and Steve blushes further.

“Yeah…?” He replies, hoping he’s not making a mistake.

But her smile widens considerably, and she nods and says, “Good.”

“Okay…” Steve blinks. “Thank you. I’m gonna—” he jerks his thumb. Slightly weirded out, he waves her goodbye. She smiles back, and Steve shrugs to himself. Maybe it ended oddly, but it was still nice to change her mood, even for a bit.

The wheel on the suitcase gives out on the hour plus subway ride home, and Steve has to carry it between transfers and the eight minute walk to his place from Hoyt station. He’s staring up at the staircase to the apartment he’s renting with Natasha and Sam, trying to calm his useless heart palpitations to prepare for the climb, when solace arrives in the form of Clint Barton, a stack of three pizzas balanced in one hand.

“Heya Stevie, need some help?” Clint says. Then before Steve can say anything, he lifts Steve’s luggage like it’s made of paper.

Steve glares at him, pride warring with his exhaustion. “Didn’t need it. And don’t call me Stevie,” he says, starting up the steps behind him.

Clint doesn’t say anything back, for which Steve is grateful. Despite having his own apartment in Bed-Stuy, he always ends up at Steve’s place on a near constant basis. Steve asked once, and he gave him a ridiculous story about the Russian mob constantly shaking down his building, but Steve thinks it’s actually due to his hopeless infatuation with Nat. He doesn’t pay rent, but he always brings food, so they’ve all decided it’s fair.

“Stevie’s back!” Clint announces as they step into the apartment. Steve rolls his eyes at ‘Stevie,’ but doesn’t say anything, instead taking his bag and dragging it to his room, bum wheel be dammed. The apartment is technically a two bed one bath, but they’d converted a thin, rectangular bonus space into a tiny yellow bedroom for Steve. He drops the bag on the creaky twin jammed in the corner by the window with its headboard on the short wall. A small dresser sits at the footboard, on top of sits a TV, another, larger dresser lying on that same long wall. Steve starts to unpack his bag and dump clothes into his dressers, sorting out his toiletries for the shared bathroom. There’s a school sized desk next to the bed which Steve uses also as a nightstand, and he plugs his phone charger back into the wall behind it.

It’s small, sure, but so is Steve, and he pays less in rent than the other two, so it all works out.

Sam and Natasha had already descended on the pizza by the time Steve gets back to the kitchen, and he sneaks a few slices before grabbing a soda from the fridge, relieved to have real food for once.

“Steve!” Sam says brightly. “How was Ireland?”

Sam, a part-time student working on a degree for social work, is a co-owner in Steve’s coffee shop and one of the few full-time workers there. They became fast friends after they met in the gym a few years back, and still workout together regularly, keeping each other in shape.

“Did you get a tan?” Natasha says wryly. She’s busy moving her clothes from the washer to the dryer where they stack in the front closet.

Natasha’s a professional ‘dancer’ at a high end strip club, and another owner in the shop. She moved to America when Steve was in high school. Their friendship had a rocky start, Natasha distrusting of everyone for reasons Steve still doesn’t understand, but Steve’s nature eventually wore her down. While Steve was getting his degree in management, Natasha dropped out to pursue her dream of dancing. It’s currently on an indefinite pause, but despite everything she seems to enjoy her job now, so Steve lets it be.

“You mean from the country with the only people paler than me?” Steve deadpans.

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “Someone’s never been to Russia,” she says, English barely accented.

Steve suddenly remembers the woman on the plane, and launches into the story as they sit around the kitchen table to eat.

“She just said… ‘gay?’” Sam repeats, bewildered.

“Maybe she’s an ally,” Clint says.

“Or maybe she has a secret lesbian lover she visits in Ireland,” Natasha says.

Steve smiles at the idea. “That would be sweet, I love old gays.”

“Though maybe she’s cheating on her husband,” Clint muses.

“Why’d you have to ruin it, man? It was a cute thought, let it be cute,” Sam says.

“The world isn’t as goodie two-shoes as Steve is, you know,” Natasha teases.

“I’m not a goodie two shoes,” Steve mumbles into his pizza.

“Didn’t you once call 9-1-1 on a bird?” Natasha says

“Seriously?” Clint says, and Sam hides a laugh.

“What did they say, start CPR?” Clint asks

“It had a broken wing!”

“Did they put a splint on it?” Sam laughs

“Ha. Ha. I was worried, okay? And like, five”

“This was high school, Steve,” Natasha says, the traitor.

Sam and Clint laugh harder, and Steve gives up. “Just for that, I’m taking one of the boxes,” he calls out, grabbing the one with the least amount of slices because he knows he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t.

He throws the pizza on his bed and collapses on it. International travel is ex _haust_ ing, but nothing is worse than having to prepare for the return to real life. Tomorrow, Steve has to open the shop since he took a week off. Though he’s technically the boss, he wouldn’t dare call in, but it also means a four thirty wake up call.

He glances at his phone, plugged into the wall and sitting on his desk. 9:30. He moans, then decides to kill two birds with one stone by eating his dinner in the shower.

Monday sucks, but Steve fights it to keep a chipper attitude for the 6 AM crowd.

His shop is small and simple. Dark wood everything, a few tables inside and a few more outside, a couple of booths against the back wall. There’s some World War II paraphernalia of his grandfather’s that he dug out of the storage unit, which is where he got the shop name and theme from, but what keeps the shop so strong, and ensures that his regulars stay regular, is that the coffee here is really damn good.

He’s almost always on the register because, as Natasha says, his attitude is built for it. She once told him his smile is like a sunbeam that blinds people into being nicer, and to this day Steve’s not sure if it was meant as a compliment.

Behind him, Darcy’s preparing breakfast sandwiches on the grill. She ones of the many college students Steve hired from the around the area, and is helpful because she can work weird hours. On his right is Peter, the only high school student working, who just got back from his bakery run and is frantically both trying to restock and serve guests at the same time. Steve sighs, but decides not to reprimand him too hard when he gets the chance. In a way, they were right about him last night. Steve is too nice, letting perhaps too much slide. He’s made it a point to pick up any shift that isn’t covered for people that need breaks, and even though Peter’s supposed to get the croissants in _before_ open, he’s doing a good job, nonetheless. Sometimes Steve thinks he works better under pressure.

They move like a machine, the early morning rush bleeding into the late morning rush. They only get a brief lull around eleven, where Steve runs to the back to scarf down a sandwich before jumping back in.

They finally break around one, lining up nicely with the shift change. Half the tables have people finishing up lunch, so Peter’s playing waiter until Wanda arrives. Luckily, they’re known for their coffee, not their food, so while mornings are hectic, afternoons are calm enough that Steve can usually duck to the back and get some office work done.

“So, how was the vacation, Cap?” Darcy asks, glasses askew as she cleans up the espresso machine.

Steve grins. He likes that nickname a lot better than ‘Stevie.’ “It was fantastic! You know, I’ve never been outside the country before?” Steve says, fingers counting change as he does a register count.

“Really? Not even like, Mexico?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nope, but better late than never. It was incredible there, the rolling hills, sheep everywhere. I didn’t know things could even be that green.” He already has plans after this hell of a shift to go to the art shop and buy ten more shades of green paint, try to get down what he can remember from the country.

“Sounds super peaceful. I’ve been to Scotland before, really pretty the five minutes a day it’s not raining. Also the guys where hot as hell, such sexy accents…” Darcy trails off dreamily.

“Don’t make me bring the hose out, Darcy,” Steve chuckles.

“Oh the ho’s been here all along,” Darcy says, tossing him a wink, and Steve frowns.

“She’s saying she’s a ho, Cap,” Peter pipes up helpfully from where he’s jamming in a tip on the computer’s beat up keyboard.

“Ohhh,” Steve says in realization. “Darcy, you shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Bitch please, I’m proud of it. Hos before Bros,” she says, then to his immense confusion, she shares a fist bump with Peter.

“I thought that bros were—” he’s interrupted from his fruitless interrogation of the gen Z social class by Wanda’s text tone.

Steve receives two more texts in the process of opening his phone.

**Wanda**

_I’m so sorry, I think I’m too sick to come in_

_I should have said something earlier, I’m so sorry_

_I’m sorry please don’t fire me!_

Steve snorts, then starts a response. She’s young, and Steve’s always had a bit of a soft spot for her and her brother, so he gives her a break. He says something along the lines of ‘no he won’t fire her, yes she should have told him sooner, and she’s needs to find a replacement after today if she’s out long.’

Before he finishes his text, she’s sent him a picture of what looks to be a doctor’s note, and Steve frowns at it, worried things could get serious.

The shop door opens, and a gaggle of chattering tourists pour in, and he hits sent before he drops his phone on the shelf beneath the counter.

Steve pastes on a smile. “Welcome to Commandos, best coffee this side of the river, what can I get for you?”

The first person in line, a blonde middle aged woman, flips her hair. “This side of _which_ river?”

“All of them!” The three employees say as if on cue, Peter’s voice coming from the other side of the room. It’s cheesy, but Steve figures it’s important to be known for something. It’s really only for the slow days and the tourists, and it works like a charm.

The tourists group laughs. “I guess I’ll have to try the coffee,” she giggles, and Steve gives her a smile back.

Eventually Pietro and Natasha arrive to relieve Darcy and Peter, Pietro sending an apologetic look to Steve.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says. He had a chance to read the note, and winced when he realized she has Mono. Steve remembers Mono, ugh.

“Worry about what?” Darcy says, already packed and ready to go.

“Wanda’s sick. I’ll pick up her shift today,” Steve says.

“Don’t know how you do it, Cap,” Peter says, overly large backpack over his shoulder. He’ll probably hole up in a booth or in the back until his Aunt gets off work.

“I don’t either,” Natasha says, and Steve knows he’s being judged but he decides not to respond.

“Go home, get ready for tests, school’s important,” he says to Darcy.

“Aye, aye,” Darcy salutes on her way out.

Pietro’s already off clearing tables, leaving Natasha to bore judgmental eyes into the side of Steve’s skull.

“Didn’t you just get off an international flight and have all of six hours of sleep?”

“Didn’t _you_ tell Sam that Hawaiian pizza is disgusting so you could agree with Clint, even though you love Hawaiian pizza?” Steve turns to her with an eyebrow raised.

She considers him a moment. Steve raises his other eyebrow.

“We have a customer,” she says finally, and Steve grins, because it’s not often he gets one up on Nat.

“Welcome to Commandos, best coffee this side of the river, how can I help you?”

The customer, a middle aged man in a sharp suit, frowns at him. “This side of which river?”

Three voices ring out across the shop with varying degrees of energy.

“All of them!”

Natasha is still slightly annoyed at Steve’s read on her feelings, and so doesn’t feel as guilty leaving him to close with Pietro. It’s far from Steve’s first Iron Man shift, but he starts to feel the pain in his back more prominently than usual at the end, and has to dig for an extra dose of painkillers.

Steve doesn’t know much about Pietro other than, like his sister, he’s young and an immigrant. He’s quiet but works with diligence, and it always on time, which Steve appreciates.

Steve waves him home around seven, then yawns as he locks up and heads to the back to do paperwork. He has a stellar location at World Trade Center, and tries to capitalize on it by being open early for Wall Street folks that are sick of the name brands. But, that also means long, long days work days.

Steve’s filling out a purchase order when he hears the bell indicating someone has walked in the front of the shop. He frowns; he’s almost certain he locked the door after Pietro had left. WTC is generally safe, but…

Just in case, Steve grabs his keys and unlocks a drawer at his desk, pulling out a small handgun and quietly loading it. If anything, it’s just a confused customer, but he’s survived this long in life by being prepared. He walks down the small hallway to the door that leads to the front, opens the door, and emerges behind the counter, the gun positioned low enough to be hidden by the countertop.

Standing just inside the doorway, staring up at the photo of the men the shop were named after, is one of the hottest men Steve has ever seen.

To Steve, everyone is big. But this man is _big._ He’s not overly tall, but still towers over everything in Steve’s shop, taking up more space than he really ought to be. Corded muscle rounds his shoulders and triceps, hidden poorly by a quality white dress shirt and tie. His chest, from what Steve could see, is broad and endless, and exactly at Steve’s natural eye level. He’s well defined under his shirt, but his waist is thick, meaning that he’s a man that not only has strength, but uses it too. If his tris were big, his thighs were obscene, so defined Steve could see the cut in his quad through the black slacks.

Steve finishes giving him the most thorough eye-fuck of his life when his gaze lands on his face, and suddenly he feels out of breath. He’s beautiful, with a sharp chin and full lips, long hair tied back into a smooth ponytail. His eyes are remarkable, a steely blue, and Steve realizes with a rush of heat that they’ve been trailing down his form for the past few seconds as well, something like interest? In his eyes.

“Sir,” Steve says, and the man’s eyes snap to Steve’s and he smiles, and Steve suddenly understands why some people swoon.

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ve closed for the evening,” Steve says after a breath.

“Could you make an exception?” The dark man responds, and Steve just about swallows his tongue at the richness of his voice, deep, yet teasing, and even yet a hint of something else.

The man continues, Brooklyn all over his tone like wet on water. “We haven’t met, but you’ve actually met my Ma, Winnie. She says you were on the flight together from Ireland?”

Steve gets himself to focus, then blinks as it clicks. “Oh! That’s your Ma? She was lovely!” Steve smiles at the memory. Gently, he lets the handgun fall from his fingers and rest inside one of the wooden shelves underneath the counter.

The man pauses for a moment, staring a Steve for perhaps a second too long, before saying, “I’m sorry, where are my manners. My name is James Buchanan Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky,” he approaches the counter, really nailing home the size difference, Jesus, and reaches out a hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve says.

“Ma said that,” Bucky smiles.

“You, uh…” Steve lifts the countertop so he can walk underneath, and grins a little when he sees Bucky’s eyes flick down and back up. He’s not misreading, then. “You said only friends get to call you Bucky?”

“If that’s where you wanna start, Stevie,” Bucky says lowly.

Steve winces. “Don’t call me Stevie.”

“Sorry,” Bucky backs up.

“No harm done, Bucky,” Steve says, smiling to loosen things back up.

“So,” Bucky leans against the counter, and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to watch his muscles flex as he does. Seriously, why is this man’s shirt so tight?

“I’m here for a reason, actually,” Bucky says, and his tone shifts slightly, like he’s getting ready to do business. “Our family is very gracious that you would assist my mother in her time of need. She was forced to travel on her own due to… circumstances outside of our control,” Bucky says.

Steve nods, he gets it being forced out to do something he’s not prepared to do.

“But you took her in and treated her like family, and the Barnes family appreciates, that,” Bucky says with sincerity.

“I didn’t—I just did what anyone would,” Steve says, a little bashful.

“Trust me, not everyone would do that,” Bucky says, then he winks. “You’re somethin’ special.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Steve says, feeling a little hot under his collar.

“Anyway,” Bucky says, smiling with a devilish look in his eyes. “The family would like a chance to show it’s appreciation. If there’s anything that you need to be done, consider it done.” He says. He pauses here, as if he’s imparting some sort of serious information.

“Oh, okay,” Steve says.

Bucky’s grin turns wry. “Any… _favor_ you would like to exchange; you are welcome to. The Barnes family is in debt to you, and we pay our debts.”

Steve blinks up at him. “Uh… I’m good?” Things are starting to get odd, but maybe this is a cultural thing…?

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Seriously Steve, anything at all. We always pay our debts,” he repeats, like that means something.

“I, uh…” Steve feels like hot guy Barnes isn’t going to let this go, so he frantically thinks of something for Bucky to do that he hasn’t gotten to yet.

“Um, can you help me… take out the trash?” Steve asks with a careful voice. It feels weird to ask, but it’s what Bucky wants, plus he has like six bags and he’s tired as shit today.

Bucky straightens up and smiles with all of his teeth. Steve stares at his face for far too long again, then glances down to the wall of muscle in front of him, and swallows a whimper before meeting Bucky’s knowing eyes.

“Just says when and where, and I’m there,” Bucky says, low and dangerous. Steve forgets for a moment what they’re talking about, and has to stop himself from responding ‘now and over the counter.’

“Uh, how about now. And here.” Steve says. Then turns red. “Take out the trash! Now and here.”

Bucky looks confused for a moment, then shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t see why not.”

“Great!” Steve feels like he’s going either to burst into flame or drop to his knees if he doesn’t move right now. “Everything is in the back.”

Steve opens the countertop and Bucky follows, looking bemused, but comfortable, as if he does this all the time. Steve leads him past the grill and to the back, then snaps his fingers as he remembers the handgun under the counter

“Hold on…” he runs back and grabs the gun from under the register, taking care to point it down after he unloads it. He couldn’t bear for any of the kids to find it tomorrow on accident.

He turns around and carefully telegraphs his motions, displaying the gun clearly unloaded. “I have a gun,” he says as to not freak Bucky out.

Bucky’s eyes go very wide. “Oh you meant _now,_ now.”

“I… yeah…” Steve’s doesn’t quite follow. Why is that his reaction to him holding a gun? “I took it out when you showed up because I thought…” The sentence fades away, Steve not really wanting to tell him he thought he was robbing his shop.

“I was someone else,” Bucky finishes, putting the fact Steve thought he was a robber in a very politically correct way.

“Essentially,” Steve grins. “Anyway, your timing is actually impeccable. I mean—” he points to the back. “I did _not_ want to do this myself again.”

Bucky looks at him with a truly bewildered expression. “Again? You do this often?”

“Almost every day,” Steve says. “Personally, I hate it.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide, and his eyebrows hit his hairline. “O- _kay_ then.”

Steve smiles and opens the door to the back. They go down the short hallway, and to Steve’s office.

“Wait, where do you need me?” Bucky says, sounding extremely confused.

“Oh, I’m just putting the gun back. The bags are out in the hall,” Steve says, pointing. Bucky stares at his finger a moment, then looks at where Steve’s pointing. He walks back out the office as Steve places the bullets in the drawer and locks the gun back up, then goes out to see if Bucky’s found them.

When Steve reaches him, Bucky’s looking at the haphazard garbage pile with an unreadable expression.

“You… seriously meant for me to take out the trash,” he says.

Steve suddenly feels incredibly foolish. A super-hot guy shows up, and Steve makes him take out his trash? Clearly that’s not what Bucky expected to do if the look on his face is any indication. Steve runs back what he remembers of their conversation, trying to figure out where he messed up.

“You said you wanted to do me a favor,” Steve says slowly.

“I meant—” Bucky blinks at Steve, then starts to laugh, full outright laugh, so hard he has to hold himself on the wall as he clutches his stomach.

Steve scowls and his cheeks burn. He’s _clearly_ fucked something up. But before he can say anything, Bucky rights himself, grabs three bags in each hand, and lifts them like they’re nothing.

Bucky’s eyes are sparkling with unshed tears when he asks, “Where are we going, sweetheart?”

Steve’s brain stutters at the word ‘sweetheart.’ “Behind.” Steve says, then frantically overcorrects. “The back. In the back, just put it in the b—” Steve cuts himself off, and Bucky laughs again.

“Take me to your back, Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve snorts, a little hysterical, and leads him to the dumpster.

Steve lets Bucky use the staff bathroom to wash his hands, and Steve leads him to the front door, still feeling like his missing something from Bucky’s occasional chuckles.

Bucky’s smiling, but it’s a lot less predatory and a lot more genuine, as if they’d had a nice dinner, and Steve was about to call him a—

Suddenly something clicks. Bucky’s mom, the plane ride. Grabbing Steve’s wrist and asking him if he’s gay. Bucky arriving and saying his _family_ is grateful, and _he_ wants to pay him back. Bucky’s clear interest in him.

“Oh, I’m so stupid,” Steve says.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, still smiling. “Oh?”

“When you said, favor… did you mean, like, a…” Steve swallows. It seems like a very… _odd_ approach, to try to convince Steve to go out with him as a return to helping his mother. But maybe Bucky’s just wants to treat him to something nice, or maybe his Mom was trying to set him up.

“You’ve gotta say it sweetheart,” Bucky says.

Steve looks into Bucky’s eyes. “Take me to dinner,” he says.

Bucky nods. “Where?”

“There’s a small Italian restaurant a few blocks over with great pizza?” Steve finds his sudden wave of confidence get lost in Bucky’s eyes.

“I’ll find it,” Bucky says confidently. “How many peo—"

“Actually, I was thinking we could meet here after I get off Thursday and we could walk over together?” Steve swallows again, and tries not to think about how he said, ‘get off.’ “They’re not super fancy. Maybe a casual fancy? We won’t need reservations, at least.”

Bucky stares at Steve, and Steve fights the urge to fidget.

“Like a date?” Bucky asks quietly. “Between you and me?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, smiling. “Your treat, so you can, you know, do me the favor or whatever.”

Bucky pauses, and he stares at Steve a moment before huffing out a laugh.

“Oh sweetheart,” Bucky breathes. “You aren’t real, are you?” Bucky’s not smiling now, and Steve loses his breath as his gaze suddenly grows intense.

“I’m plenty real,” Steve says in lieu of anything else.

Bucky smiles, for the first time it’s completely sweet and soft, and Steve feels his heart skip a beat.

“Then I owe God a million favors for allowing me to meet you,” he says.

Steve words dry up. “Th—That’s. What—”

Bucky leans down and kisses Steve, once on each cheek. “Thursday after work?”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve says. “Same time.”

“Until then, sweetheart,” Bucky smiles again, and it roots Steve to the floor, leaving him staring through the door as Bucky disappears into the city street.


	2. A Date with The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> The response to this story is amazing! I'm sorry I haven't been able to get back to your comments individually, but every time I read one of ya'lls comments, I smiled like an idiot at my computer :)
> 
> Also, if you are familiar at all with my writing, then you know I almost immediately jump to smut in my stories. The second half of this chapter (basically as soon as the date ends) is all smut and a little bit of comfort. You might miss a little bit of backstory, but it gets repeated so no worries.
> 
> Thank you to Swisstea and Shosh for being betas and cheer readers!!!!  
> Hope you like!

# Chapter 2: A Date with the Devil

Steve decides he needs some air, and walks all the way back to Brooklyn from WTC. He regrets almost immediately, as the Brooklyn Bridge is still packed with tourists and wannabe photographers. And yet, despite all the jostling, Steve still feels lighter than air when he finally makes it back home.

He makes his way up the creaky apartment stairs and unlocks the door to his apartment, trying to pretend he wasn’t exhausted. Inside, he walks down the hallway to the right to check on his roommates. Natasha’s door is shut, so Steve assumes she’s resting up for the club. He heads back through the living room to knock on Sam’s door, but he seems to be absent, probably finishing up class.

Generally, at any given time, there’s a fifty percent chance that Clint is hanging out at their apartment, which goes up to eighty over the weekend. Personally, Steve has no idea what he does or how he has so much free time, but he never gets a straight answer when he asks, to his chagrin.

But tonight it’s quiet, so Steve drops into bed and pulls out his laptop, logging into his favorite porn site and immediately searching for the largest man he could find (in every possible way) paired up with the smallest twink.

Finding a satisfying clip, he puts it on the TV, and digs for the lube.

Steve finishes cleaning the lube off his fingers and heads to the kitchen right as Clint stumbles in the apartment with dinner.

“How do you have so much money for food?” Steve asks, looking around the fried rice for the sesame chicken in the brown bags Clint’s dropped on the kitchen table.

“Inves’men’s,” Clint responds, speaking ineloquently around an eggroll, feet propped up on the small wooden dining table.

“Surprised you even know the word,” Steve says dryly, dumping out his food onto a plate.

“I am a man of many depths, including my stomach,” Clint responds. “Is Natty around?”

“She’s sleeping, which you already knew because you wouldn’t dare call her that otherwise,” Steve mutters, annoyed that Clint doesn’t respect either of them enough to stop calling them annoying nicknames when they ask.

“True,” Clint says, picking absently at a bandage on his forearm. “Sammy?”

“Nope,” Steve plops his ass on the Good Spot on the couch and looks for a show to stream, resting a paper plate of fried deliciousness on the coffee table in front of him.

“Ooo. What are we watching?” Clint says. He flips his legs over the back of the couch with remarkable skill and lands perfectly, managing to hold his beer and two containers of food in one hand as he does it.

Begrudgingly impressed, Steve holds up the number 10 with his fingers. Clint gives a small bow.

“It’s a baking show with three really bad chefs and a hilarious host,” Steve says, flipping it on and digging into his plate.

Three episodes and a beer later, Steve slumps into the couch as he says, “It also has that guy,” pointing to the built-like-a-tree stagehand that always gets dragged on the show.

Clint whistles, stretched out on the couch, covered in fortune cookie crumbs. “That is a _man._ ”

“Oh yeah,” Steve says dreamily.

“Been a while, Stevie?” Clint teases.

Steve throws his fortune cookie in Clint’s general direction. Clint somehow manages to catch it perfectly, and immediately starts to work it open

“I have a date Thursday,” Steve says back determinedly.

“Stop everything! You? A date?” Clint teases. “Not another one night Daddy from Grindr?”

“Stop appropriating my people’s language,” Steve says lazily. “I have a date with a _man._ Muscles for _years.”_

Clint snickers. “I love when you get like this.”

“Guy like that doesn’t sound like a guy you date,” Natasha’s voice says, entering the kitchen. She still sound scratchy, like she’s just woken up. “Guy like that sounds like just another tree to climb.”

“Usually,” Steve says, unashamed. Given his taste for men that could snap him like a twig, Nat, Sam and Clint are extremely invested in the string of one night stands that make up his love life. It’s a safety thing, Steve gets it. They also tend to have the personality of an empty glass of water, to everyone’s endless amusement.

“Be careful,” Natasha warns, slipping into her shoes.

“Yep,” Steve agrees. “I’ll text you when he arrives and turn on my location. We’re going to Fellini’s down the street after work Thursday. I should head home after that.”

Over his head, Clint and Natasha share a look that Steve catches.

“Hey,” Steve glares at them. “Stop having secret conversations over my head.”

“His place or yours, Steve,” Natasha says, leaning over the side of the couch and raising an eyebrow.

“Both! Alone!” Steve insists.

“So… here, then? Might want to text Sam to clear out for a few hours.” Clint says, snickering.

“I’m not gonna fuck him on the first date,” Steve says, standing up to get himself some water and relinquishing the Good Spot to Clint.

The door to the walkup clicks and opens as Sam keys his way in. “Evening y’all,” Sam says around a yawn. Steve gives him a hello back on his way to the kitchen, shaking his arm a bit, as it had fallen asleep against the couch.

“Steer clear Thursday night, Steve’s got a date,” Natasha says.

Steve glowers at Natasha. She smirks at him from behind the Chinese food bags.

“No worries man, text me and I’ll jump over to the library,” Sam says, dropping an overflowing backpack onto the kitchen counter and more or less diving for the food.

“I’m not gonna bang him on the first date,” Steve says, filling up a glass full of water from the fridge.

“So it’s going to be more than one date?” Sam asks.

It’s only because Sam says the words with the utmost kindness that Steve doesn’t get defensive. “Yeah, he’s… sweet.” Kinda weird, but Steve blames himself for missing some of the innuendo in the beginning.

“I bet,” Natasha says dryly.

Steve feels the sudden urge to defend Bucky. “He was! He helped me take out the trash during close, and he said… He said he owes God a thousand favors for being able to meet me.”

All three of his roommates turn to stare at Steve, looking three different levels of impressed.

“Sounds like someone who can treat you right,” Sam breaks the silence. He offers Steve a pat on the back before heading to the loveseat to crash.

“And oh so wrong,” Clint says with an eyebrow waggle that Steve mostly ignores.

“He seems very smooth.” Natasha says, and Steve assumes that’s the best he’s gonna get until she adds “I hope he’s what you think he is, Steve.”

Steve nods. He usually has a good intuition about these things.

“But I swear, I’m not having sex with him on the first date!”

Okay, Steve might have sex with him on the first date.

News of the mystery man spread to his staff thanks to Sam’s penchant for gossip, and everyone was so curious about Steve’s mystery man that they all volunteered to close Thursday. Even Wanda, who still had mono.

Steve had to beat them off with a stick—almost literally, he had the broom in hand—in order to get them to leave Thursday, stating he doesn’t want to freak him out too much and lose him altogether.

So it’s just Steve in his loosest dark jeans (still extra skinny) and a light blue button up that showed off his eyes, waiting with nervous energy after close Thursday. The shop had been shut down already, and the only lights came from the rain slicked city streets, blocked out somewhat by the ‘Closed’ sign on the front door and the rainbow flag he hangs on the inside window. He had done the afternoon shift that day, which wasn’t as bad as morning, so at least his back didn’t feel like it was ready to collapse in on itself. More than usual, anyway.

He sends a text to a groupchat with his roommates, turns on his location and shares it, then pretends to look busy on his phone.

Bucky arrives suddenly, in one moment not there and the next moment there in all his massive glory. Steve blinks at him, then rushes to open the door and let him in from the rain.

Steve’s throat tightens when Bucky steps in, the light from the street drenching him in an eerie, silvery light. He’d gone more formal than Steve, with a pair of black slacks and a gray button down that _has_ to be a size too small. It pulls tight across the road that is his chest, the seams looking ready to burst around his shoulders.

“Damn,” Steve breathes, finishing his less-than-subtle once over.

“You’re telling me, sweetheart.”

Steve nearly forgot about the richness of Bucky’s voice. He can’t suppress the shiver that runs across his skin.

“There’s a line here about angels missing from heaven,” Bucky says sweetly. He reaches forward and grabs Steve’s shoulder, then traces his fingers down his bicep and forearm, like he can chase the shiver away.

“There’s also a line about the devil being handsome,” Steve says back, and Bucky’s startled into a laugh.

“Oh baby, you have no idea,” Bucky says, then, finishing his exploration of Steve’s arm, Bucky takes his hand. “Lead the way, sweet thing.”

Bucky, ever the gentleman, holds the door open for Steve and goes as far as to offer him his only umbrella, which Steve refuses and demands they share. It’s too rainy to chat, but Steve can feel the heat radiating off of Bucky like a brand on his side. He uses escape from the rain as an excuse to wrap an arm around Bucky’s waist, Bucky holding the umbrella up between them.

Bucky’s _thick_. Thick thighs, thick pecs, thick arms, but also, what Steve really likes, is that he has a thick waist. Bucky is nothing but muscle, his obliques that shift under Steve’s less than innocent arm just as solid as the rest of him. People don’t usually work their obliques, because it’s not necessarily the ‘bodybuilder’ aesthetic, which solidifies Steve’s thought that Bucky must use his strength for something, not just have muscles for show.

“One more block,” Steve says, then he pretends to misstep so he can pretend to fall into Bucky, tightening the arm around Bucky’s waist so he can feel his lower back shift as he walks.

Bucky spares him a glance at that, eyes sparkling with amusement, and Steve shrugs and smiles and says, “It’s slippery out here.”

“So it seems,” he responds, laughter in the lines of his voice.

They arrive a moment later, Steve pointing out a restaurant that is lit warmly in contrast to the heavy rain, a multitude of potted plants and Italian art piece decorating walls and shelves.

Bucky holds the door open to let him in, and Steve nods in thanks feeling his nerves start to trickle in.

They are seated at a booth in the back corner close to the kitchen, unfortunately, where the lighting was poor and the sound of waiters and chefs running in and out of the back was prevalent. Steve’s been to this specific restaurant a hundred times with a hundred guys, and likes it because his friends always know where he is, the waitstaff doesn’t slut shame, and he can order a meal with extra garlic if a guy gets too unpleasant.

Today it’s uncharacteristically crowded. Steve blames the rain driving customers in off the street.

“The best seat in the house is actually on the other side of the restaurant. Unfortunately, it looks like someone beat us to it,” he says, pointing to a lucky couple that got there first. “Do… you mind if I go to the restroom?” Steve asks.

“Please, take your time,” Bucky smiles and Steve hurries off.

Steve quickly does his business, then takes a deep breath and fixes his hair in the mirror. When he returns, his heart drops, because Bucky’s not at their table anymore. He has a brief moment of dread, before he notices that the table he pointed out to Bucky earlier is now occupied by Bucky instead of the couple that was there before. The fact that Bucky took the time to move across the room after the table opened up was actually… kind of sweet.

“Looks like we got lucky!” Steve says brightly once he makes his way over and sits down, the table much quieter and warmer than the other. Though, wasn’t the couple that was sitting here just served their meal? Maybe Steve misjudged.

“Not as lucky as me,” Bucky says like a fact, and Steve blushes.

They order a bottle of wine, and it’s quiet at first, neither quite knowing what to say, until Bucky asks him, “How long have you owned Commandos?”

And Steve responds, “Two years,” and he’s off. It’s easy for Steve to talk about his shop, and his coffee from Ireland, and how happy he is with its growth. He wonders idly how Bucky knows he’s the owner, but figures it has to be published somewhere, considering that he was able to find him at work with nothing but a fairly common name.

They’re through half the glass of wine and finished with the bread by the time Steve finishes, then he curses himself for talking for so long, and apologizes, even though Bucky doesn’t seem to be at all bothered by it.

Bucky waves his apology away, and begins topping off both of their glasses. “I don’t make it a habit of doing things I don’t want to do. Listening to you is as easy as a Sunday morning.”

“That’s sweet,” Steve says. “You’re very poetic.”

“I’m a bit of a romantic,” Bucky shrugs. “Life is valuable, so you should take advantage of the good things in it when you can.”

“That’s a good way to think,” Steve says. “Live in the moment, capture the world as it is and spend time on the details.”

“Exactly,” Bucky smiles. It lights up his whole face, and Steve spends a moment soaking it in.

“So, what do you do?” Steve asks, breaking the silence. First dates always have really weird pacing, and this one is no different, but Steve urges himself fight through it.

“I’m in the business of imports and exports. It’s been in my family for generations,” Bucky says. “Right now, I’m training under my father to take his place one day at the head.”

“Damn, that’s gotta be a lot of work,” Steve says. He expected a businessman with the way he dresses, but he also expected Bucky to be a marine or something, with the way he’s built.

“It is, but it’s rewarding,” Bucky says, thumbing his glass. “We give a lot back to our community. My family is Russian, but my mother is a Romanian immigrant, and so we do our best to make both of those groups’ lives better.”

“Romanian!” Steve says, her language barrier clicking. “You know, that makes sense. When I was trying to talk to her on the plane, I remember thinking she was speaking something that sounded like Russian, but wasn’t.”

“Do you know Russian?” Bucky asks, curious.

“I don’t actually, but my roommate Natasha does so I’ve heard it spoken a lot. She was born there, moved here in high school,” Steve comments. “That’s so good that you have such a focus on community service, giving back in important. We have a tip jar at our shop that goes to a nearby LGBT shelter.”

They break to order, Steve steering clear of the garlic, before they jump back into conversation. “Family is important too. That’s why I was in Ireland, actually. My whole family on my mother’s side is there, and I’d never been to see them all before.”

“That sounds like fun. Did you go with your Mom?”

Steve’s smile twists, and he takes a quick sip of his wine to fruitlessly try and hide it. “She passed away a couple years back. Part of the trip was to relive her memory, return a few things to her family.” The last family Steve has left, Steve thinks bitterly.

Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand over the table. “I’m really sorry about that Steve. I get what it’s like to lose family for no good reason.”

Steve nods. He’s never a fan of pity, but something about Bucky’s tone implies empathy instead of sympathy, and it saves him from feeling improperly consoled.

He changes the subject, trying to push on to happier topics, and starts talking about some of his employees antics at the shop. He regrets it slightly at first, because he’d just went on about Commandos earlier, but it pays off when Bucky can actually relate, being in charge of a decent amount of people himself.

Bucky, as it turns out, is a fantastic storyteller. He talks about some stories about difficult employees at work at first, but then goes into what it’s like growing up in the Brooklyn area in an immigrant neighborhood. Steve jumps on that immediately, delighted he can relate. He talks about growing up with a single Mom and an absent Dad in the heart of the city. At first they were poor as dirt, struggling to make ends meet, especially when Steve was born nearly a month and a half early and needed a series of medical treatments to keep him alive. Steve keeps that part out though, determined not to bring things down.

Bucky talks about his family, about his three younger sisters, all in the same business as well. He adores his mother, who sounds like a sweet yet severe housewife that brought up the four of them with an iron spoon.

He also brings up that his nickname is both a play on his middle name and a reference to the fact he had a terrible case of buck teeth as a kid. Steve returns with a story about how he lost half his baby teeth in a fist fight. Bucky laughs, but then calls him impressive for fighting back his bully that kept taking his lunch money.

“I get it, needing to make ends meet and having to fight for your share,” Bucky says.

“You do what you can with what you got,” Steve agrees.

The meal passes by like a breeze, both men chatting and laughing and swapping stories. Steve finds out that he constantly surprises Bucky with his dry sense of humor, and occasionally he manages to break Bucky’s perfect composure whenever he gives him that ‘sunbeam’ of a smile Natasha talks about. It gets him flustered, so Steve tries to play it up a bit, just to get under his skin.

The night starts slow, but it builds up into something fantastic. After their empty plates are taken away, Steve finds himself moving into Bucky’s side of the booth so that Bucky can wrap an arm around his shoulders, grinning from the wine. The waiter drops off their dessert for the evening, along with a tiny glass of dessert wine for both of them that they didn’t order.

“On the house,” the waiter says, and she gives Steve a wink. “We like this one.”

Steve feels his face heat as Bucky breaks into surprised laughter, tossing his head back as he does.

Bucky recovers, and looks down at Steve’s very red face.

“Bring a lot of guys here, sweetheart?” Bucky grins.

Steve blushes harder, more at the pet name than anything.

“Yeah, but none they’ve liked enough for free alcohol,” Steve says, turning towards Bucky and winking. “I guess I’ll have to keep you around.”

It’s a bold thing to say, but Steve’s never felt like this with anyone before. Bucky has an incredible attention to detail, snagging them the table Steve pointed out, talking about living in the moment. He’s also deep, but not cheesy, and Steve can’t help but feel like there’s more to him than meets the eye.

Bucky chuckles, looking down into Steve’s eyes. “If that’s what it takes to see you again, then I’ll give you all the free alcohol you could want.”

Steve laughs lowly, then looks up at him from under his eyelashes. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to get me drunk, Bucky Barnes.”

“What make you say that?” He says, then he unwraps his arm from around Steve and reaches for the wine glasses on the table, pushing one into Steve’s hand.

Steve laughs as he hands him his drink. “Cheers,” he says, and they drink the sweet liquid together. “You know… they’re not the only ones that like you. I don’t think I’ve ever connected this quickly with someone before,” Steve admits.

“Me neither,” Bucky says, putting his glass back on the table and glances down at Steve with a bold look. Then, he leans down and kisses Steve’s forehead. Before he can pull back though Steve reaches up and grabs Bucky’s face in his hands.

“You call that a kiss?” Steve whispers, then he pushes up to meet Bucky’s lips.

Bucky’s lips are soft and taste like cherries. They kiss slowly, trying to figure the other one out, until Steve feels Bucky start to dig deeper, start to take control. He guides Steve back against the booth wall, and Steve’s breathe hitches as Bucky’s hand wraps around the back of Steve’s neck, pressing himself into Bucky, drowning in the movement of Bucky’s mouth.

They break apart, and Steve nearly gasps. The kiss has lit Steve’s whole body up in warmth. Bucky’s eyes are dark, lips slightly parted like he’s feeling something similar. Steve licks his lips and tastes cherry; Bucky watches the movement, enraptured.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve says, trying to slow down his beating heart. It’s never been like this, not after just one kiss.

“Pretty far from it,” Bucky says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile.

Steve huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know, you’ve got the hair.”

“Can I feed you?” Bucky asks.

Steve blushes, speechless at the sudden request. He nods, and Bucky grabs his fork and pulls the plate forward.

Dessert is a simple chocolate brownie with raspberries and whipped cream. Bucky takes turns feeding himself and giving bites to Steve, and Steve’s never felt quite so cared for before. An only child, and now parentless, he leans into comfort wherever he can find it.

“You know, they say chocolate is an aphrodisiac, but I never believed that before tonight,” Steve whispers after the last taste of chocolate melts in his mouth.

“I didn’t believe in aphrodisiacs at all until I met you.”

Steve sucks in a breath, and leans forward. “You say such things.”

“I only say what I mean, darling,” Bucky says.

“But do you mean what you say?”

Bucky smiles, and he puts his hand on Steve’s arm, thumb tracing circles into the fabric of his shirt. “You know, when I first saw you, I didn’t expect your voice to be so low.”

Steve smiles and rests his head on the seat back. “I get that a lot.”

“It’s so deep. And sensual,” Bucky continues. “I couldn’t wait to hear it again. That night we met… I wondered what you’d sound like, moaning into my mouth.”

Steve bites his lip, and feels arousal flush his system. He’s drawn forward as if with a string.

“I wondered… would it stay so deep, screaming my name?”

“Jesus. Jesus.” Steve feels hot all over, feels his dick trapped against the leg of his jeans.

“Nope,” Bucky says with a satisfied smile as the waiter returns with the receipt. “Just me.”

Steve leans away as Bucky signs the check. He feels intoxicated, and that has little to do with the wine. He shuffles out of the seat and realizes, with a jolt, that there’s other people in the world other than Bucky. The restaurant had emptied out a bit as the evening grew long.

“Hold my hand, sugar,” Bucky says, and they walk out of the dimly lit restaurant together into the night. The rain seems to have stopped his incessant fall, and the moon is struggling to split through the clouds. The air smells wet, weighing itself down on Steve’s skin.

“Where do you live?” Steve asks after a moment of silence. Bucky’s hand is warm in his, and Steve can feel a current underneath his skin.

“Not too far from here,” Bucky says, which could literally mean anything. “You?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve says.

“Home sweet home,” Bucky grins in the night. “You just keep getting better.”

Steve’s about to offer to split a rideshare—it’s not too bad for two people—but before he can, a black town car pulls into the loading zone in front of Fellini’s.

“You… drove?” Steve asks. The idea of actually driving in New York, especially in Manhattan, is completely absurd to Steve. In Manhattan, cars were only there to get in the way of pedestrians and crowd up the crosswalks, that’s it.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, just at a driver jumps out to open their door.

“A rideshare?” A really nice one, Steve thinks as they climb in. Bucky slides to the window, but holds out his arm for Steve, who climbs in the middle seat and tucks into Bucky’s side.

“No baby, this is mine,” Bucky says with a kind smile. “Tell the driver your address.”

Steve reads off the cross street, and the car begins to move down the street.

“Who has a _car?_ ” Steve says breathlessly. There must be a lot of money in his import and export business.

“I do,” Bucky says, remaining tenaciously vague.

Steve shakes his head. “You’re the unreal one, Bucky Barnes,” he says, looking into his silver eyes.

“Yeah? What’s unreal about _me_ , doll?”

Steve can’t help it, he shivers all over, swallowing his tongue when Bucky says that last word.

Bucky grins like he just won top prize at a fair. “You like that,” he says lowly, drawing it out, “ _doll_?”

“Fuck you,” Steve breathes, and he lunges for his lips. There’s no nuance to this kiss, no gentle exploration, just tongues and lips and fire between them. Steve can feel his pulse pounding between his legs.

They separate after a few heated moments. “God, what you do to me,” Steve gasps on retreat.

“What’s that, doll?” Bucky grins as Steve shivers again at the nickname. “What do I do to you?”

Boldly, Steve takes Bucky’s hand and presses it against the inside of his own left leg, near the knee. Bucky takes a sharp breath.

“Why don’t you find out?” Steve says, keeping his voice low, and watches as Bucky’s eyes dilate, feels as the hand on his knee grips a little tighter.

“You’re killing me, doll.”

“Still think I’m an angel?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, and he starts to move his hand up Steve’s thigh. “And I want you to fall for me.”

Bucky’s hand skips a few steps and grasps Steve’s dick in his pants, and Steve moans outright as Bucky presses it into his thigh and starts to knead.

Steve tries to shift closer, suddenly dying to be free of his skinny jeans. He looks over to see about returning the favor, and swears out loud when he sees the size of the tent in Bucky’s slacks.

They stop suddenly, and the car idles. Bucky leans down to kiss him again, still stroking him through his pants, and Steve moans into his mouth before licking Bucky’s tongue and biting his bottom lip. He grasps Bucky’s wrist to still his movements.

Bucky starts. “Can—”

“Come up,” Steve demands. “Unless you’re dying to leave after, tell ‘im to go home.” Steve points at the driver. He takes Bucky’s hand off his dick and slides over to the far door.

“Well, you heard the boss,” he hears Bucky say to his driver.

Steve takes a second outside to dig out his phone, and winces as he sees a text from Sam saying he’s decided to stay late in the library anyway, so no worries or pressure.

He texts the group chat that he’s safe and home, then, knowing it’s going to come up, that Bucky’s still with him. He hates it when they’re right.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket just as Bucky sends his driver off. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulder and holds him close as they walk the few blocks to Steve’s apartment building. It’s a neighborhood full of low rise buildings, trash piled on the street and late night bodegas on the corners.

Steve is starkly aware that Bucky has money—he can see it in his clothes, in the fact he has what looks to be a personal driver—but if Bucky can’t handle the level at which Steve lives, then this isn’t going to work out.

They make their way up the steps and through the front door, then up the rickety wooden steps to the apartment door, which Steve unlocks slowly, trying to hide his heavy breathing. He flicks on the lights to the apartment, annoyed that everyone had read him like a book and sought to clear out, but also begrudgingly relieved. Bucky looks around the apartment curiously, taking in the small kitchen to the left, and the mismatched furniture in the living room, and the weird laminate stain in the entryway that no one has figured out how to remove. It also has pictures of Steve and his for friends in various combinations and outfits, and some of Steve’s better artworks on shelves and on the walls.

“It’s not much,” Steve says, already defensive, already ready to fight for what he’s got.

But he need not have worried.

“It’s a home, therefore, it’s already everything it needs to be,” Bucky responds simply. “Someone could have the best apartment in Brooklyn, and still not feel at home. This? This is a home.”

Bucky seems sad all of a sudden. Steve uncrosses his arms, getting the feeling that the poor man, despite having his whole family, feels lonely. Steve can understand lonely.

Steve walks over to him, where he’s studying at the picture of the four of them at the Christmas markets last year, bundled up with cider in foam cups. Steve stands on his toes and kisses him on the back of the neck.

“Tonight, do you want to share my home with me?” He asks softly.

He’s rewarded with a smile, Bucky turning around to take him in his arms.

“You’ve already done so much for me, and you don’t even know. To know someone like you even exists…”

They kiss again, long and slow, before Steve makes a frustrated noise and pulls back.

“Well, what _you’ve_ done for _me_ is make my pants really, really uncomfortable. So how about you let me get out of them?”

Bucky exhales sharply. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“Then head to my room,” he points, “and get comfy. Yeah, it’s small and no, you can’t comment. I’ll meet you there,” Steve says.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says teasingly.

“That’s what I like to hear. Go!” Steve says, then Steve goes into the bathroom off the hallway to freshen up.

He emerges a minute later completely free of his pants, wearing nothing but the loose button down and his blue briefs. He walks back to his room, turning the living room lights off as he goes, and cracks open the door.

Bucky’s made himself comfortable in Steve’s extra-long twin, indeed. He’s taken his hair down and it fans, thick and wavy, behind his clasped hands. His slacks are unbuttoned but not undone, and the first few buttons on his shirt are popped to reveal a hint of hair. This is the first time Steve’s seen so much of him, seeing the man he is underneath all those dress shirts.

Bucky sits up when the door opens, and drinks Steve in like a man starving.

“Like what you see?” Steve smiles, turning his head so that it rests against the door frame and cocking a hip.

Bucky, it seems, is all out of innuendos. His expression is borderline feral when his eyes finally reach Steve’s face.

“Come here, Steve,” Bucky says, a hint of danger in his voice, and Steve shivers at the use of his name.

Nevertheless, Steve takes his time, sashaying his hips and he walks, undoing two of the buttons his dress shirt. Bucky watches his fingers toy with the third one, not quite revealing himself all the way, before reaches the bed and tosses a leg over Bucky’s thighs.

“I’m here, Bucky,” Steve says, tasting the syllables of Bucky’s name in his mouth.

Bucky’s hands immediately come to rest on Steve’s hips. “God, you’re beautiful,” Bucky says. His hands stroke down his thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

Steve shivers, leaning into Bucky as Bucky squeezes his thighs with his calloused hands. “You’re not too bad yourself,” he says, then kisses him. It grows deep and dirty and much more urgent with each passing moment. Steve can’t help but start to grind his hips in the air, and Bucky’s hands tease their way under the waistband of his briefs. Steve gasps, and rolls his hips as Bucky squeezes his ass, slipping the fabric down.

“You’re wearing too much,” Steve complains, and his fingers start to work the buttons of Bucky’s shirt, revealing his miles of chest. When Steve finishes, he finds Bucky’s lips again and does his own exploration of Bucky, rock hard underneath his hands.

Bucky’s nails scratch up Steve’s backside, and Steve retaliates by teasing a nipple between his fingertips. Bucky’s breath hitches, then he pulls his hands from Steve’s underpants and rips all the buttons off his shirt.

“I liked this shirt,” Steve says, not complaining at all. Bucky grips Steve’s hips and pulls him forward, Steve sliding up the bed and rising up on his knees.

Bucky’s lips find one of Steve’s nipples, and Steve gasps and slaps his hands against the wall behind him. He takes a hand and buries it into Bucky’s hair, guiding him to keep going as Bucky’s hands find his way to Steve’s ass again.

Steve moans as he shifts to the other nipple, then lets his head fall backwards when one of Bucky’s hands starts to stray, a finger sliding down his ass to tease at his entrance.

Steve’s breath stutters, then he curses and reaches for the drawer under his desk and wrenches it open, digging for the lube.

“Hand,” Steve says, and Bucky holds it out as Steve pours him some lube, then he leans back over as Bucky’s hand finds its way back to where it was teasing before.

“Oh…” Steve sighs as Bucky’s finger slips inside. He pushes back into his finger as it slides in, whimpering.

“You’re so warm…” Bucky breathes in Steve’s ear, and Steve shudders all over and finds Bucky’s lips, before rocking his hips in time with Bucky’s gentle fingering.

“Another,” Steve says, then he gasps as Bucky adds it. He can’t remember the last time a guy prepped him, instead of expecting him to do it himself. It’s so intimate, Bucky’s fingers scissoring and probing inside of him, looking into Steve’s eyes as he does.

The angle’s not great though, and Steve can feel Bucky struggle to get deeper.

“On my back?” Steve suggests, and Bucky agrees.

Before Steve can move, Bucky lifts him up and bends over him, then gently lays him down on his back, putting his muscles to good use. Steve moans at the blatant manhandling, then again as Bucky starts to kiss down his body. Bucky shifts backwards, then Steve hears a ‘thunk’ as his foot makes contact with the far wall.

“Small bed,” Steve says, a little embarrassed.

But Bucky doesn’t tease or comment. He simply takes Steve’s hips in both his hands and pulls the briefs off his body in a single movement. He then lifts Steve’s hips, _just_ his hips, so that his legs fall over his head and his ass faces the ceiling.

“This okay, sugar?” Bucky asks.

“Fuck,” Steve says stupidly, and Bucky smiles smugly overhead, before pressing two fingers back into Steve’s hole.

At this angle, Bucky can get _much_ deeper. His fingers scissor, and one finds Steve’s prostate, and Steve whimpers as white hot pleasure snaps up his spine.

“There,” he gasps, and Bucky presses both his fingers just there, and Steve moans, long and deep, stars shooting behind his eyes. He can’t help but move his hips, trying to buck them into the sky, and he hears Bucky swear from above him.

“Do you want to take another?” Bucky asks, voice rough with arousal.

“I don't usually have to,” Steve says. He likes the burn. “But I’m not gonna say no.”

“You should,” Bucky says, and he starts to work in the third, the stretch burning Steve’s rim. Pleasure and pain rush to his head, made so much stronger by the position he’s in, and Steve gasps out Bucky’s name as he brushes his prostate.

The sensations meet in his stomach, and suddenly, despite the three fingers stuffing his ass, he feels very empty.

“Fuck me, Bucky,” Steve gasps. “I’m ready, come on.”

Bucky’s fingers pull out, and Steve lets his legs fall back to the mattress with a squeak, a feeling of relief taking him over at no longer having blood rush to his head.

Bucky’s climbed off the bed, and is currently working both his pants and underwear down at once, sliding it over his erection in his pants. Steve lets his hand toy with his cock, bringing himself to hardness as Bucky’s pants finally drop to the floor.

“Fucking hell,” Steve swears, because he _knew_ the tent in his pants looked big earlier.

“See something you like?” Bucky smirks. His dick is long and thick, dark and uncircumcised, framed by neatly trimmed hair and a heavy set of balls. Bucky’s sliding the foreskin over the head as he strokes himself to the sight of Steve, and Steve watches, enraptured, as a drop of precum beads at the tip.

Steve barely recognizes his own voice. “Fuck me,” he says, and he spreads his legs, one falling off the bed to rest on the floor.

“That’s the idea, sweetheart,”

“Condom’s in the drawer behind you,” Steve says, playing with himself as Bucky reaches to grab one, unwrapping it and rolling it on. Bucky’s staring at him as he slicks up, so Steve spreads his legs even wider to show himself off, on foot resting on the wall.

Any other time, his partner would have probably mentioned something about how much of a slut he was, and Steve would have winked and encouraged it. But Bucky moans when Steve exposes himself, and mutters “beautiful,” under his breath, and Steve suddenly finds himself fighting an uncharacteristic shyness, feeling more on display than ever before.

Trying to shake the feeling off, Steve takes the leg on the wall and puts it on Bucky’s shoulder, then he encourages Bucky to lean forward until he’s leaning over his whole body, making him feel delightfully covered.

“Flexible,” Bucky growls, and Steve winks.

The position has also lifted Steve’s hips purposefully off the bed, and Bucky takes the chance to rub his cock against Steve’s crack. He lines up, and the head of his cock starts to press against Steve’s hole, and Steve gasps harshly as the starts to slide in.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Steve chants as Bucky stretches him, wider and wider and wider. It feels like ages before the head pops in, both men cursing. Bucky starts to slowly work Steve open, moving in and out a half inch at a time. Steve already feels stuffed by the time Bucky’s halfway in, and when he finally seats his balls against Steve’s ass, Steve’s sweating, pretty sure he’s seconds from splitting in half.

“So big...” Steve moans, actually meaning it for once. Bucky’s hair has fallen into his face, and Steve’s hand shakily goes up to brush it behind his ears. Bucky’s expression is reverent, eyes closed and lips parted.

“So _tight_ , doll,” Bucky gasps. He grinds his hips slowly and Steve arches into the movement, sparks flying behind his eyes as he rolls past his prostate.

“Move,” Steve says. “I can take it,”

“I can’t,” Bucky says, and Steve notices that his body is trembling, all of his muscles pulled tight across his whole body. “I need a minute or I’m gonna… fuck baby, _fuck_ you feel so good.”

Steve shudders, and accidentally clenches around Bucky. Bucky makes a noise that sounds like he’s in actual pain, then turns to look at the ceiling, lip between his teeth.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize baby, I just want to make this feel good for you too, and it’s not gonna be if I can’t last more than a minute.”

Steve strokes himself, enjoying the fullness in his abdomen. “We always got round two, Buck,” Steve grins wildly.

Bucky jerks his hips abruptly, and Steve gasps as he sears past his prostate.

“And you’re not the only one who’s not gonna last,” Steve growls, “Jesus, Bucky, _move.”_

“Okay,” Bucky says, and he finally starts to fuck him, slowly at first, the working up speed. Steve gasps, Bucky’s cock splitting him open over and over with every thrust, pressing into and past his prostate as he moves. Steve shouts as the pleasure increases exponentially, the force of Bucky’s thrusts actually rocking Steve’s entire hundred pound body into the sheets, the battered twin bed squeaking with each thrust.

Bucky’s moaning breathlessly above Steve’s head, staring down at him with half lidded eyes as he buries himself in Steve’s body over and over. Steve cries out as he picks up the pace further, slamming his hips downwards with so much force the bed begins to protest angrily, and the foot board bumps repeatedly into the dresser behind it.

Steve’s mouth is open and his eyes are closed, and he feels a telltale wave of pleasure build in his stomach, the tingling sensation growing in his abdomen until it becomes a burning pressure, hot and white, engulfing Steve’s whole body.

“Bucky!” Steve gasps. “Bucky! I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” Steve hand finds his own dick and he pulls at it rapidly.

“You’re gonna come, doll? Yeah sugar, yeah Steve, come for me baby, come for me,” Bucky gasps out, his hips starting to stutter.

Steve shouts as he comes, shooting his seed all over his chest and abdomen as he rides waves of overwhelming pleasure, bolstered by Bucky’s unrelenting pace.

Bucky moans, then leans back, giving Steve’s leg a rest, and finding himself a better position to thrust, short and hard, into Steve’s thin body. A hand goes up to run through his hair as he pounds away, messing up the already messy strands, abs flexing with each tight movement, lost completely in the act of chasing his own pleasure using Steve’s body.

“Fuck, Steve, baby! So fucking _good_ , I’m gonna—” Bucky’s hips stutter, then the thrusts in deep, several times, his eyes rolling back into his head and his hands gripping Steve’s thigh like he’s holding on for life.

Eventually the spasms stop, and Bucky falls back against his heels, breathing heavy and hard like he’d just run a marathon.

The movement slips him out of Steve, who’d been watching Bucky fuck him like a machine in a daze, still stupid and loose from the orgasm. He lets his hips fall to the bed, then groans in pain as his back protests immediately.

“Are you alright, Steve?” Bucky asks, looking down at him worriedly.

“I’m fine,” he says, then he rolls over to sit on the edge of the bed, and bites off a grunt when his back protests again.

“Steve, what’s wrong?” Bucky says, worry seeping into his voice.

Steve swallows his pride. “Scoliosis,” he mutters, standing slowly and hobbling to his desk. It’s probably late enough from the drinking that he can take a painkiller.

He pops two tablets just as Bucky comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s back and kissing the top of his head.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says simply.

“Not your fault my spine is an ‘S’,” Steve says, leaning back into his warm body. Steve’s completely satiated and fucked out, and refuses to let old pains hold him back from the frankly kickass orgasm he just had.

“Would you like a massage?” Bucky asks, voice warm in his ear.

Steve’s eyes fly open. A massage actually sounds wonderful. “You mean it?” He asks dubiously.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Bucky responds. “Hop on the bed.”

Steve grins and jumps on the bed, lying down on his stomach, and Bucky sits on top of his thighs, still very much naked. Steve feels him gently trace the jagged curve of his spine, before starting at the bottom and digging into the muscle there.

Steve moans, eyes fluttering shut.

“Do you wear a brace for this?” Bucky asks, then quickly corrects himself. “Sorry… that was too personal.”

“‘ts okay. I did when I was a kid, but it doesn’t really help me now, according to the doctor. Probably should’ve gotten surgery, but it’s dangerous and expensive.”

Steve’s oversharing, but something about being with Bucky is making him feel safe. Bucky was probably strong enough to lift Steve’s bed all by himself, but his hands right now are careful and attentive, just pushing hard enough to work out the always-tight muscle.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky says sincerely. “Wish I could have done something.”

“You’re doing everything you can right now, silly. No use crying over spilt milk.” Steve’s voice is muffled into the pillow, floating on cloud nine.

“Yeah, but…” Bucky’s voice trails off. His hands find the sore spot and Steve seizes up when he presses into it. Bucky soothes him, then works his fingertips around it gently for a little while, easing out the pain as the crickets chirp outside the window.

“You’ve done this before,” Steve sort of asks, sort of says. He’s melting into the blankets already.

“Yeah, I’m pretty familiar with the human body. Anatomy, and all that,” Bucky says. “Translates pretty well here.”

“Mmm,” Steve says, sinking further into the mattress.

“Plus, putting my hands on you really isn’t a hardship, sweetheart.” One of his hands ghosts down his back to grope Steve’s ass, and Steve laughs, turning his head to the side.

“My spine’s not that curved, honey,” Steve giggles. He’s already feeling better, Bucky managing to get most of the soreness out with his careful massage.

“You sure? I don’t know… Kinda wanna double check.” Bucky says, then his other hand falls on the other cheek and squeezes the muscle in his hand.

“Search away,” Steve says contentedly. He allows himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of having someone else’s hands on him, big and strong. He’s moments from falling asleep, cum stains be damned, when he’s yelps, startled by Bucky’s tongue swiping up his hole.

Steve moans as Bucky licks away, thumbs spreading Steve’s ass apart to gain better access. 

Bucky pauses for a moment to readjust his body, saying, “Is it bad that I actually like the taste of your lube?”

“Pina colada,” Steve pants, bucking his hips impatiently. “No more talking, back to work.”

Bucky chuckles as he pulls Steve up further, then says, “Let me know if I put you in a position that hurts your back again, okay sugar?”

“That’s…thoughtful,” Steve says, surprised.

“People should be asking you these questions and treating you like this every day,” Bucky says firmly.

“Trust me, if you want to eat my ass every day, I’m not going to stop you,” Steve says. He’s joking, but in reality he’s actually very touched. He can’t remember any partner ever asking about his spine, ever making sure he’s okay with a position, always so distracted by the end goal than the process.

Bucky gets back to it, working his tongue around and into Steve’s loose hole. It’s hot and thick, swiping over his sensitive hole and digging in with vigor, and Steve pants, trying to spread his legs to get Bucky deeper. Bucky replaces his tongue with two fingers, sliding into Steve with little effort, and Steve fucks back eagerly, whining in the back of his throat.

Bucky preps him quickly, then stands up as Steve moves to his hands and knees, mattress creaking threateningly as he arches his back. Behind him, Bucky puts one foot on the ground positions himself to fuck into Steve long and slow. Steve moans continuously, letting his eyes fall shut as the now familiar ache of Bucky’s cock returns.

Bucky keeps a steady, firm pace as Steve swears at the ceiling. His hands wrap around Steve’s thin waist, fingertips digging in and bouncing Steve’s hips against his cock. Steve gasps with each movement, falling from his hands to his elbows, arching his back further and giving Bucky a better angle. Steve cries out when Bucky’s able to get even deeper than before, glad that the apartment is empty.

Steve’s pretty sure Bucky’s trying to show off as much of his stamina as he can after the relatively quick round one, but Steve certainly isn’t complaining with how hard and long he’s driving into him now.

“You take my cock so fucking well, doll.” Bucky breathes. “Ain’t never seen anything like it.”

“I can usually take it even better, but you’re big,” Steve says between airless gasps. “So you’re going to have to keep fucking me open ‘til I get used to it.”

Bucky growls, actually straight up _growls,_ and starts to pick up his pace, which Steve is learning is a sign he’s getting close. Steve’s been on the edge for a while, finding it much easier to control himself when Bucky’s not railing him into next week.

He reaches between his legs and begins to stroke. He’s already there, pleasure bubbling under his skin, and comes fast and hard with a cry into the sheets. Bucky picks up his pace further, then grunts and pulls out. A moment later, Steve can hear and feel him finishing, drops of cum landing on Steve’s back. Steve collapses and sighs, feeling a drop roll slowly down his side. He stretches his legs out as Bucky ties off the condom, then beckons him back to the tiny bed.

“Could we shower first?” Bucky asks politely.

“Don’ wanna move,” Steve moans, though he knows that Bucky’s right.

“Okay,” Bucky says, then he picks Steve up.

“Fucking _hell_!” Steve yelps into Bucky’s shoulder as he instinctively wraps his legs around his waist. Bucky laughs as he carries him to the bathroom, moving with a frankly ridiculous amount of ease. If Steve wasn’t dead tired, he’d probably be twitching for a third round.

They clean up slowly, then Steve ducks out a little early to put on a fresh set of sheets.

“It’s small,” Steve says, a little defensive again, as they both stare down at his college size twin.

“Means we’ll hafta keep close,” Bucky says, and he climbs underneath the blanket.

Steve smiles, and follows him in.


	3. The Call of The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes yes we will get some standing sex I know what u all really want.  
> (Smut ends if you ctrl-f 'Bucky's already looking')
> 
> Also!! This story is written from Steve's perspective, to a fault, meaning we only see what's going on in his head. And Steve doesn't know Russian. But if you dear reader would like a little more behind the scenes action as to what's going on in the story, feel free to copy paste any Russian text into a translator (You may have to make it cryllic first). But I'm not putting translations down. So you can choose to be in oblivious's Steve's mind, or have a bit more context as to what's going on. Up to you! You won't miss anything either way, it'll just be more of a surprise. 
> 
> Not as long as the other's, but want to build up some more context before we start diving into the thick of things. Also smut.
> 
> If you've left a comment I personally love you.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit 12/18: There is now art for this story made by [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/) There is a bit of a penis in it! It is halfway through the sexy time, please enjoy.

# Chapter 3: The Call of the Devil

Steve’s first thought of the morning is that he’s very warm. An arm is draped over his body, tucking him neatly into the curve of a strong chest. His legs are tangled with another’s, weighed down considerably. Slowly, last night trickles into Steve’s mind, and he smiles to himself, feeling giddy and warm all at once.

His eyes flutter open. The sun is streaming through his window, light cut into patterns by the shutters, highlighting the dust particles floating idly around his desk. He needs to clean again, lest his allergies flare up.

Behind him, Bucky’s breathing steadily, likely awake. He’s curled into a loose C, like an end parenthesis, with Steve carefully nested inside.

This is what Steve loves about big guys. The feeling of being engulfed, covered, protected. The feeling of someone having his back. Usually it’s a fleeting feeling, the fantasy breaking by his one night stand wanting a wakeup call, but when Bucky places a kiss on the back of Steve’s head, and whispers, “Good morning,” the fantasy doesn’t break. Bucky’s big, damn is he big, and he’s strong, but he’s also sweet and kind, and Steve thinks he’s found a good one.

“Morning,” Steve says, voice gritty with sleep. He squirms slightly under the covers.

“You know, I always forget about your voice until you say something,” Bucky says with a breathy chuckle against his neck.

“Mmm. A lot of people do. Body’s small, but my voice is big.”

“It demands to be heard,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s hair.

Steve likes that. Nobody wants to see a five foot some-inch gay man, but Steve’s gonna make them hear him, instead. Steve snuggles back into Bucky’s arms, and Bucky rubs his hand in small circles on Steve’s bare chest.

“Was it like you imagined?” Steve asks after a few peaceful moments.

“Hmm?” Bucky asks quietly.

“Last night, when I screamed your name. Was it like you imagined?”

Bucky’s arm tightens around Steve’s chest, and Steve can hear him swallow.

“It got better each time you said it,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve pushes his hips back, hoping to find… yep.

Bucky hisses as Steve grinds his ass into Bucky’s half hard cock, and says, lowly, “Would you like to hear it again?”

Bucky’s makes a heady noise, and his hand immediately reaches into Steve’s sleep pants and wraps around Steve’s soft cock. Steve grunts as the rough, calloused palms from Bucky’s… office job? Scrape against his skin.

“Too dry,” Steve groans, and he reluctantly pulls Bucky’s hand away and rolls off the bed, searching for the lube bottle he’s sure they kicked to the floor last night.

He emerges from under the bed to see Bucky stepping out of his boxers behind him, and tosses the bottle to him with a grin. Bucky’s eyes rake over his body greedily, so Steve turns around and rolls his briefs over his ass, bending at the waist to give him something to look at.

When he stands back up to look over his shoulder, he’s awarded with Bucky’s dark, aroused stare, a lubed hand stroking himself to attention.

Bucky points at Steve’s desk stool, and says, “Sit.”

Grinning, Steve sits his bare ass down on the stool, making a distant point to disinfect it later. As soon as he sits down, Bucky drops to his knees in front of him. Steve’s breath catches in his throat. Bucky winks one of his blue-gray eyes, then takes the head of Steve’s cock in his mouth.

“Bucky—” he gasps as he sucks lightly on the head. He’s circumcised, so it’s not overly sensitive, but Bucky still takes his time working his tongue around the bell end and digging lightly into the slit, before sucking him down halfway.

“Bucky…” Steve moans as Bucky bobs his head, cheeks sucked in as he worked. Embarrassingly, Steve can’t remember the last time he has a blowjob. He never really asks for them, and the guys he usually sucks never seem to want to return the favor. But here Bucky is, on his knees with no preamble.

Bucky slides Steve’s hips forward in the chair, and Steve braces himself on the desk behind him. Bucky’s slick hand goes to play with Steve’s sac for a moment, rolling his balls in his hands, then trails back towards his hole.

Steve moans as he pushes his finger in. He finds resistance, which Steve sort of expected, and Bucky pops off Steve’s cock and gives him an awed look.

“How are you so _tight_ already? You took me twice, and I’m not small,” Bucky says, matter of fact.

“Like I said,” Steve moans, trying to push back on Bucky’s finger to get him moving again. “We need a lotta practice.”

Bucky shakes his head in amazement and finds Steve’s cock again, working Steve’s hole open with two thick fingers.

This morning feels less urgent than last night, but no less intense.Steve’s stuck holding himself up with his hands in what’s turning out to be a strenuous position, despite Steve’s yoga skills. Already he can feel one of his arms falling asleep, so he leans further back against his wooden desk and lifts his legs, wrapping them around Bucky’s back and crossing his ankles. He looks down to watch, lips parted, as Bucky bobs between his legs.

Steve tosses his head back and lets himself enjoy. Bucky’s up to three fingers now, the stretch and the suction providing him with sharp, sparkling sensation from both sides.

Bucky pulls off and out, standing up in front of him before reaching for a condom from the desk. As he does, Steve winces as he tries to adjust again, his back starting to complain from the position.

It’s only because Bucky cared so much last night that he brings it up now.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, baby?” Bucky says, slicking himself up, eyes taking in Steve’s whole body.

Steve sits up, his back instantly finding relief. “I don’t think I can fuck in this position. My back, it can’t—the prep and stuff was fine!” He assures quickly as Bucky’s face turns apologetic, “but any longer, and it’s going to start to really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s not bad now, and now you know, so just know we can’t fuck like this,” Steve says, gesturing to the desk half-heartedly.

“Okay,” Bucky says, then he picks Steve up.

Steve yelps, grabbing onto Bucky’s neck for dear life. He needn’t have worried though, Bucky’s grip was strong and sure. Both hands hold Steve up under his ass, spreading him wide and positioning him so Steve can feel the tip of Bucky’s cock against his entrance.

“How’s this?” Bucky asks, eyes alight and grin wild.

“You can fuck me like this?” Steve says, breathless. God, he hopes so. He’s had men pick him up before—he’s only a hundred and three pounds, but despite the initial strength, they can usually only fuck like this for a minute, before something gets sore.

Bucky smiles, and uses a hand to start guiding Steve onto his cock, gravity helping Steve sink. Steve lets out a shuddering moan as Bucky fills him, the stretch and the depth expanding his insides rapidly.

“Doll, I can bench press three of you,” Bucky says.

Steve does the mental math and whimpers, cock twitching between their bodies. His eyes rake over Bucky’s shoulders and chest and arms, flexing with but not straining with the effort of holding Steve up.

* * *

**Image** : Bucky holding Steve in the air | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

“You like me manhandling you, baby?” Bucky grins, beginning to gently move his hips.

“Y-yeah,” Steve gasps. He can barely get words out at this point.

“Like me sliding you up and down my cock with just my hands, opening you up wide? Hitting you in just the right spot?”

Steve can only moan in response, Bucky doing just as he said, fucking up into him as he jerks his body down. He really does feel like a doll now, just going along for the ride.

“Let me take care of you, baby boy,” Bucky says quietly, and then he does, fucking Steve steady and deep, standing up in the middle of Steve’s tiny room.

Steve _can’t_ last. His prostate is being pummeled, and he feels so safe in Bucky’s arms that it’s so easy to let go and let him take control. His cock is drawing lines of pre-cum up and down Bucky’s abs as his legs try to find purchase against Bucky’s broad back.

“Bucky…” Steve moans, and he catches the way Bucky’s eyes dilate at the sound of his name.

“Bucky,” Steve says with purpose, and Bucky growls and widens his stance, fucking up into Steve just a tad harder. Bucky shows little sign of wear and no sign of slowing down, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Bucky!” Steve gasps. “Bucky, I have to come, but my hands, I need—”

Bucky _moves him to one arm._

It’s effortless, and Steve makes a noise he’s never made in his entire life. It frees up Bucky’s right hand to grasp Steve’s cock and stroke him hard and fast, right as he grinds his own cock deep into Steve’s ass, and Steve’s voice breaks as he comes hard, shooting into the air and onto Bucky’s chest.

Bucky cradles him back in both arms and presses Steve’s back into the closest wall. Before Steve can finish riding out the last wave of pleasure, Bucky doubles his pace, punching out small, wrecked sobs from Steve’s chest as his sensitivity ratchets higher. Steve’s hands slip against Bucky’s back, slick with sweat, and the corners of his vision start to grow white around the edges as stimulation reaches a new peak.

Without warning, Bucky, whose head is tucked close to Steve’s, lets out a long, drawn out moan, and buries himself into Steve as deep as he can. Steve flinches in pain when Bucky’s teeth sink into the muscle between his shoulder and his neck, holding for a moment, before sucking deeply on the bruised skin.

Bucky swears, then peels Steve off the wall, propping him up perpendicular to the bed, before he more or less collapses next to him, adopting a similar slumped position.\Steve feels like the ends of his nerves had caught flame and died, and his legs feel like noodles.

He rolls his head to look at Bucky, who’s still panting lightly. “You’re fucking amazing,” Steve blurts.

Bucky’s already looking at him, eyes flicking up from the bruise he left on Steve’s neck.

“Sorry I bit you.”

Steve snorts. “No you’re not.”

“No I’m not,” Bucky grins. He looks so human in the light of the rising sun, bedhead frizzy and wild around his head, and Steve has the brief, insane thought that he wants this for the rest of his life.

“Can I ask you a question that sounds rather… awkward?” Bucky asks.

“Technically you already did ask me a question that sounds rather awkward.”

Bucky chuckles. “I wanted to ask… how old are you?”

Steve snorts, closing his eyes. “I look like a kid, huh.”

“Not really. You certainly don’t sound like one. But it’s hard to, uh, tell.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Steve says. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

Despite every molecule of Steve’s tiny body screaming at him to go back to sleep, he has to eventually get to work. They shower separately because Steve has to shit and they aren’t _that_ close, and after, while Bucky showers, Steve digs through the fridge for some of his leftover smoothie. He’s not a breakfast person, but he is still underweight, so he makes up for it by fruit and veggie smoothies with a big scoop of protein powder.

It’s still early, around seven, and Steve had heard music coming from Natasha’s room. He hopes he wasn’t loud this morning. They stayed away from the bed, which is the usual culprit of Steve’s activities, but they were pressed against the shared wall after Bucky finished him off in the fucking _air,_ Christ.

Which, okay, Bucky positively has a kink for Steve saying his name, and is probably possessive as shit too, given the size of the still-bruising bite mark on his neck. He’s too blissed out to care about it right now. Actually he’s more than blissed out, he’s _happy._ A fantastic guy, even more fantastic sex. While it’s only been one date, Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been this excited about someone since… ever.

He’s riding such a high, he doesn’t even blink at Natasha’s smirk when she walks in the kitchen, her eyes immediately finding the massive hickey, red and brown against his pale skin.

“Is the vampire you met last night going to be okay going home in the sunlight?” She quips as she starts digging around for something to eat. She’s in jeans, probably going out to grocery shop after work, her hair falling out of a bun.

“Oh he’ll be alright, though he’s a bit worn out,” Steve says, winking.

“That good, huh?”

“Three times, Nat. And the positions! We—”

“TMI,” Clint’s muffled voice comes from the couch across the room, and Steve snickers, not even realizing he’s there.

“Keep going, Clint can handle it,” Natasha grins, flicking on the electric kettle.

“He’s still here,” Steve reminds her, and Natasha snorts.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“He’s different,” Steve says firmly. Natasha quirks and eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything after that, going to pour some tea.

Steve starts to feel annoyed. “What, you don’t believe me? Don’t trust my instincts?”

Natasha shakes her head, pulling out two mugs. “I trust you, but I also know you. You’re the kind of guy to see the good in someone—only the good.”

“It worked with you, didn’t it?” Steve says.

Natasha returns to the table, a bag of Earl Grey in each of their mugs. “Maybe. It’s a good quality to have, but I don’t want you to be taken advantage of. Let me be the shovel talk friend, yeah?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. Out of the three of them, she’s the most protective. It’s endearing and annoying all at once.

“I’m going to go check on him,” Steve says in response, then he leans over and kisses Natasha on the cheek. She makes a face and wipes her cheek with her hand, and Steve chuckles.

Bucky’s in his bedroom, slipping into his clothes from the night before. Steve enjoys the view of Bucky’s back as he jumps a little to pull his slacks all the way up. His hair is detangled and damp, and Steve feels the urge to run his hands through it.

“Must be nice to have a shirt with all its buttons on it to go home with,” Steve says, mock-upset.

Bucky turns, slipping the sleeves of his shirt on and shrugging it over his shoulders. “I don’t see a problem leaving you with less clothes than you started,” he says.

“ _You_ might not, but the customers might not like it if I’m shirtless in the shop,” Steve says, watching as Bucky starts to button up.

Bucky looks Steve up and down with such intensity, Steve wonders if he should take off his pants and try for round four. “If you start serving coffee shirtless? I think you’re gonna get a lot more business,” he says.

Steve snorts, then cracks open the door to let him out.

“My roommates are out there,” he warns. “Do you want coffee or anything?” Steve asks, trying to prolong to inevitable.

Bucky gives him a smile, walking past Steve and entering the hallway. “I would, but I have to get to work, unfortunately. I have to be in by eight.”

“Ah, okay.” Makes sense, Steve thinks.

“But, now that I know where the best coffee in the city is, I’ll be happy to take you up on it,” Bucky smiles.

Steve smiles back, butterflies dancing in his stomach. “I’d like that. You’re welcome anytime.”

Bucky gives Steve a slow, deep, kiss.

“Do you wear cherry lip balm?” Steve asks after they separate, inches from each other’s face.

Bucky shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah. You want some?”

Steve licks his lips and tastes cherry. “I’ve got some, thanks.

Bucky’s eyes dilate.

“Do you… want some more?”

Steve grins.

Natasha finds them making out in the hall like horny teenagers, and Steve can feel her eye roll despite the fact his eyes are closed.

“Your tea’s getting cold, Steve,” she says dryly.

Steve’s ready to flick her off and start round four, but Bucky’s pauses and pulls back from him, turning towards Natasha.

“Spoil sport,” Steve says. “Bucky, this is Natasha, Nat thi—Nat, what’s wrong?”

Natasha is staring at Bucky like she’d seen a ghost. She’s rooted to the spot, lips slightly party in shock. For someone as non-emotive as her, it’s a warning sign.

“Roman…off,” Bucky says.

Steve looks quickly between the two of them, then straightens himself up. “Do you guys know each other?”

Natasha closes her mouth, expression going from shock to completely unreadable. Steve hasn’t seen her shut down like this since high school.

“Barnes,” she finally responds.

 _“Kak pozhivayesh', sestrenka?”_ Bucky switches fluidly into an accented Russian, as if he’d been speaking it his whole life.

 _“Khorosho,”_ Natasha responds, her tone not nearly as warm as Bucky.

Steve leans on the wall, letting them have their moment despite dying of curiosity.

 _“Kak tvoi roditeli?”_ Bucky says. His tone implies a question, and his words are soft and careful, like he’s speaking to a spooked animal.

 _“Oni khoroshiye lyudi.”_ Natasha says stiffly.

_“Eto khorosho, ochen' khorosho.”_

There’s an awkward pause. It doesn’t seem like a happy reunion, in fact, Steve hasn’t ever seen Bucky so serious before.

 _“Kakovy vashi namereniya?”_ Natasha crosses her arms across her chest.

_“Ya khochu vstrečatʹsja s nim.”_

Natasha frowns, eyebrows stitching together.

Bucky places a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and smiles at him.

 _“Ne govori yemu, kto ya. Ne govori yemu, chto ya delayu._ _Pravdu yemu nikto ne skazhet.”_ He says to her, though he looks into Steve’s eyes. Steve frowns back. What the hell is going on?

Natasha’s expression doesn’t betray anything, but Steve notices the way her fingers clench in her inner arms.

Bucky’s smile doesn’t stray. _“Ty dolzhna nam.”_

Natasha frowns further.

 _“Ty_ sdelayesh' _eto.”_

“Uh, guys?” Steve’s not very good at reading rooms, but even he can tell they aren’t happy with each other.

Natasha doesn’t say anything.

Bucky squeezes his shoulder lightly. “I have to go, sweetheart.”

“Wait, what’s this all about?” Steve snaps, but Bucky’s moving away already.

Bucky steps around Natasha, and Steve stops to look at her. Great sex, nice guy, fine, but if he has an issue with Nat? Bucky’s never gonna step foot in his life again.

But when he looks at her, she’s her usual, flat, low-level amused self. “I’ll tell you later, Steve.”

“You know him?” Steve asks, frowning.

“I _knew_ him. A long time ago. He’s a good guy,” she says.

“Then what was—”

A yelp echoes through the apartment, then Steve hears the sound of a distinct _thud._

“Clint,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. Natasha’s already moving to the living room, where Clint is currently trying to fight his blanket, stand up, and back away, all at the same time. Bucky’s standing behind the couch with his hands in his pockets, an eyebrow raised. He turns when Steve walks in and winks at him.

Clint finally manages to stand up, blanket clutched in one hand, and says, “That’s—”

“Clint,” Natasha sighs. “This is Steve’s man friend, Bucky.”

Steve snorts at the description.

“But!” Clint’s free hand flails uselessly in the air. “But—”

“He’s a guest, Clint,” Natasha says patiently. “Be polite. And put on some pants, please.”

“Okay but Nat, he’s—”

“Let’s give them their space, huh?” She reaches out and loops his arm into hers, half guiding, half dragging Clint towards her room.

Steve looks to Bucky in order to apologize for Clint, but Bucky just looks amused by the whole situation.

Clint stares at Bucky as he leaves, pointing “The—the Bra—”

“Yes, my bra, I can’t find it. Help me look?” Natasha says. She lowers her tone, adding something sultry to her voice, and it finally gives Clint pause.

Clint looks at Natasha, then back at Bucky, then back at Natasha, and then, hilariously, at her braless chest.

“Uh…” he says.

“Oh my God,” Natasha mutters, and she yanks him along, finally managing to drag him around the corner.

Throughout the entire exchange, Steve remains well and truly baffled, and slightly embarrassed at Clint’s actions. He catches Bucky’s eye.

“I am _really_ sorry about that. Clint is… Clint. Not very good at mornings.”

“It’s okay, Steve, don’t worry.” Bucky says nonchalantly. “I do have to leave though; my car has arrived,” Bucky says. He doesn’t make a move towards the door though, and Steve can half guess why.

“Before you go…” Steve starts, chewing his lip. He was originally planning on setting another date, but the interaction with Natasha has made him wary.

Bucky looks at Steve hopefully.

“What happened between you and Nat?” Steve asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Bucky’s eyes go a little distant, and his lips quirk awkwardly. “It’s a long story, and not mine to tell.”

“Natasha’s my best friend,” Steve says, raising his chin.

“I… understand.” Bucky puts his hands back in his pockets, looking uncertain. “I don’t want to be a point of contention in your life, but I _do_ want to see you again, Steve.”

She did say he was a good person…

“Perhaps talk to her?” Bucky offers helpfully.

“I will,” he says, meaning it as a warning.

But Bucky doesn’t seem worried. He walks towards him, but Steve holds his ground. “I do want to see you again, Steve. I think we’re good together, and it feels… nice to be around you,” Bucky says, perhaps a little uncomfortable talking about his own feelings so candidly.

Steve chews his lip again, feeling himself waver under Bucky’s steel eyes and soft tone.

“I’ll text you,” Steve decides. It’s not the definite yes, but it’s not a no, either.

If Bucky’s upset about Steve’s lack of commitment, he doesn’t show it. He seems understanding, completely refusing to push, and Steve finds that very refreshing. They exchange numbers, then Steve offers him one last kiss, before he disappears out the front door, Steve ignoring how the room feels empty without him here.

Steve grabs his tea, then rushes to Natasha’s room.

Unlike Steve’s room, Natasha’s room is sized for a normal human, and has the eggshell walls and gray carpets from when they first moved in. She’s made it her own by laying bright rugs on the ground and buying warm wood furniture and hanging blankets on the walls.

She also was his first customer. On her wall above her bed in an eight in a half by eleven frame of a picture he’d painted of her dancing ballet. She insisted on paying, back when no one else would, and it makes him smile to see.

Natasha’s sitting on her bed while Clint is sitting in her desk chair, looking a lot calmer.

“So, what was that about?” Steve asks incredulously. “Also, Clint, thanks for the embarrassment.”

“Any time, Stevie,” Clint says, staring at the ceiling. His arms are crossed and his legs are wide in the desk chair, feet planted on the ground.

“Don’t call me Stevie,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

Natasha cuts in. “When I came to this country, before I was adopted, I stayed at a sort of… halfway house that was owned by the Barnes.”

Steve looks over at Natasha in surprise. He takes in her serious look and carefully sits on the bed next to her. Despite all the years they knew each other, he still doesn’t know much, or at all, about Natasha’s past.

“James was there sometimes,” she continues, and Steve remembers vaguely that that’s his real name. “He used to stop by and play with the younger kids. Hang out with us, tell us stories. We all used to think he was so cool.”

Steve thinks back. Bucky said he’s twenty-eight, and Nat’s two years younger than Steve (despite them being in the same grade, thanks for holding him back, pneumonia) so when Nat came over here in her pre-teens, Bucky must have been about… Seventeen? Eighteen? The perfect age for the ‘cool older brother.’

Steve’s trepidation about Bucky melts into soup. Bucky talked about charity work, but he never really elaborated on it. Steve figured he was making the standard rich-guy tax-deductible donation, nothing more.

“He’s sweet,” Natasha says. She sounds reminiscent. Not very sad, or happy about it. Perhaps some of her memories of her past are bittersweet.

Clint’s still staring at the ceiling.

Steve wraps his arms around her, and she hugs him back. “I haven’t thought about those days in a long, long time,” she says.

Steve nods and holds her for a moment, then tries for levity. “Sounds a bit like you had a crush on the guy.”

Natasha snorts, pulling away from Steve.

“Should I be worried?” Steve teases. Nat’s not touchy-feely woman, so this much honesty must be exhausting to her. Jokes and teasing, though? She can do that all day.

“Well he’s clearly already staked his claim,” Natasha grins, nodding towards Steve’s neck.

Steve laughs, and Natasha smiles with him, jumping off the bed.

“Besides, it’s just transference. Things were bad, and then they were good, and James played the savior role in my head. Nothing but an innocent childhood crush,” Natasha assures.

“So…” Steve stands up slowly, looking at Natasha in the eyes. “You think I should go on another date with him?”

At this Natasha’s eyes lock with Clint’s.

Clint looks right back.

“Does he make you happy?” Natasha asks.

“It’s only been one date, but… yeah Nat.” Steve says quietly. “He does.”

“Then go for it,” she says. “Be happy.”

Clint taps his foot against the ground, and Steve looks at him, frowning.

“Got something to say, Clint?”

Clint meets Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t uncross his arms. “Be careful,” he says.

“I always am,” Steve says, nodding sagely.

Natasha and Clint share a look, then look back at him and say, together, “No you’re _not!”_

Steve starts to laugh.

Steve eventually heads back the kitchen to take a beta-blocker for his heart, PrEP for his… everything, an antihistamine for his nose, some ibuprofen for the chronic back pain, and a puff of his corticosteroid for his lungs. At least his liver works, he thinks dryly as he washes everything down with the smoothie.

Steve keeps his phone near him throughout the day, but decides to give Bucky time to miss him. Bucky hasn’t texted, so he’s either giving him space, or gotten immediately sick of him and blocked his number. One of the two.

He deflects all of his employees questions, claiming not to kiss and tell, but he’s dying to talk to someone about the date, and sets his sights on Sam at the gym that evening.

“So it went well?” Sam asks in the locker room, as they both dry off from the shower. One bathroom with three and a half tenants meant showering out as much as possible.

“Better than well,” Steve says, towel around his waist and in his hair. The locker room is empty except for them in their cube, likely given to the fact it’s Friday evening. Steve had gotten familiar with the stair machine today, not even pretending he’s not tightening it up for Bucky. “He shows up with an umbrella and offers me the whole thing, like he’s willing to walk a few block in the pouring rain just for my comfort.”

“You didn’t let him, did you?” Sam asks, rolling on deodorant.

“No, no, I’m not an ass. I said we could share and used the opportunity to feel him up,” Steve grins at him.

Sam snorts.

“Anyway, he’s the perfect gentleman, opening doors, listening, he even got the good table at Fellini’s when the couple before us left,” Steve chatters on, slipping into his shorts. “We connected really well, especially for a first day. Oh and he fed me!”

Sam spares him a glance at that. “He _fed_ you?”

“Yeah, I know, but it worked,” Steve flaps his hand at him. “Best part? Waiter gave us free liquor because she said the staff liked him.”

“They _what?”_

‘Oh yeah! Said ‘we like this one,’ and Bucky just about died laughing.” Steve smiles at the memory. “And then after he took me home, and—”

“Nope, nope, this is where I tap out, buddy,” Sam says. “Don’t want to hear it.”

“Tell me everything,” Natasha says, filling his glass with rosé.

Steve sips it, crossing his legs on the couch, sun setting outside the window and making the white room orange.

“Eight and a half, could barely close my fingers around it,” Steve starts. “Uncircumcised—"

“The one-eyed monster,” Clint gasps, digging into his pad thai with a fork.

“A monster all right!” Steve says, laughing. “And he knows how to use it. Oh, and he’s really, _really,_ strong, fucked me in midair—”

“How is that possible?” Clint questions, sipping his beer.

“Hush Clint, it’s just now getting good,” Natasha says.

“He likes my voice,” Steve giggles, sitting and leaning over the coffee table to get at his food. “Says it sensual. Likes it when I say his name.”

“Sounds narcissistic, but okay,” Clint says.

Steve eats a ball of rice and ignores him. “And he kept putting me in all kinds of positions, _and_ he fucks like a machine. Of course the first time, he was too turned on to go slow. I put my ankle on his shoulder and he bent me backward—”

“Ankle on his shoulder?” Clint interrupts. “How flexible _are_ you?”

“Stop interrupting,” Natasha says, glowering. Clint raises his hands in defeat.

“He got all the way in and said if he moved, he wasn’t gonna last.”

“Damn, Steve,” Natasha whistles.

“Wait, I thought that was a bad thing?” Clint frowns

“Yeah, but it’s also kinda flattering when a guy says your ass is so good he can’t last,” Steve says.

“Especially when he’s trying real hard to hold on,” Natasha continues.

“Lasted longer than I expected, actually. He just railed me into next week.”

“Alright, Sam’s in the room now,” Sam announces as he walks in. “No more sex talk.”

“Prude,” Natasha says without any heat.

“Sam!” Steve waves over his shoulder. “Come join us!”

Sam does with a smile, and they sit around the table and chat and eat, something mindless on the TV above them. It’s the first time in a long time they’ve all had a Friday off. Sam doesn’t have a test for a few weeks, Natasha’ taking her first Friday off this _year,_ because that’s the best days for the strip club, and Clint… is somehow always free, so Steve’s getting them all to go out together.

Three hours later and they’re in a crowded bar, everyone doing shots except him, Sam hanging off Nat as Clint and Steve cream them both in darts. It’s a hot summer night and Steve’s feeling good, ignoring the way the beer is making his heart beat in his ears.

Steve eventually steps out to get some air, then checks his phone and finds he has two messages.

**Thor**

_Hey, you doing anything tonight?_

Steve shivers. Donald Blake, captain of the LGBT men’s rugby team, affectionally known as Thor due to his heritage and demeanor, had a huge dick and an even bigger personality, and had the endurance to fuck Steve for _ages_ before he came like a firehose and passed the fuck out. A nice, reliable, one and done. But Steve’s not looking for anything tonight, so just ignores him, looking at the other text.

**Brock**

_u up?_

Steve rolls his eyes. Brock’s… always willing, which is most of his appeal. He’s a dick, but he’s got a dick, so. Steve ignores this one too. He’s itching for more than what he usually gets from these guys. Itching for someone else.

A woman near him lights up a cigarette, so he walks a few steps to round the corner. He starts a new message with Bucky’s number.

**Bucky**

_Hey, you want to get some_ _ice cream Sunday?_

_I know a place, we can go after my yoga class._

Steve sighs and leans against the brick wall, enjoying probably one of the last cool nights of the year before June hits full force. It’s crowded with people smoking and laughing and jostling one another, this bar along with several other on the street glowing bright with energy despite the lateness.

He gets another text, and looks down. It’s Brock, saying something about how he saw Steve read his message. Steve rolls his eyes. He leaves read receipts on for a reason.

He stands out there for a moment, before taking a deep breath, relaxing a bit into the night. Then, Steve turns around and heads back into the crowded bar, where Clint was currently ordering another round of shots for everyone except him.

They leave around three, everyone drunk to some degree except for him, walking back to their little apartment noisy and happy. Steve checks his phone, and is surprised to see he’s gotten another text from Bucky, along with a few from Brock which he doesn’t bother to open.

**Bucky**

_I’d love to, sweetheart._

Steve smiles and texts him a time and place, along with ‘ _shouldn’t you be in bed?’_

When he steps back into the house, crawling into his own bed, Bucky responds with ‘ _shouldn’t you?’_

Steve takes a photo of himself in bed and types back _‘miss you,’_ then backspaces nine times and types _‘not the same without you.’_

Steve’s halfway to sleep with Bucky responds, phone lighting up on the desk beside him. Steve looks at it and feels his heart skip a beat.

**Bucky**

_I miss you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: google translate is horrid. I personally used Yandex, but even then because I romanized the Russian characters, it’s going to be a little wonky. You may have to extrapolate.
> 
> PPS if you know Russian and I’ve done something horribly wrong... Please let me know.
> 
> PPPS Thank you Losomudrosti for your translation help!


	4. In Defense of The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday ya'll! Gotta say, I'm having a lot of fun with these characters.
> 
> Suddenly: Plot lines appear! Mystery abounds! And who is that in the distance but: Tony Stark??????
> 
> Warnings: Medical talks, as Steve has a lot of things wrong with him and goes to the doctor.

# Chapter 4: In Defense of the Devil

Sunday, Steve drags Sam and Natasha to room-temperature yoga at their local gym. He tries to go at least twice a week. It’s one of the only exercises he excels in, the sessions a grueling combination of strength, flexibility, and focus. He likes to think, during downward dog, he can actually pull his spine a little straighter each time he does it.

It’s probably not true, but fuck it. Steve needs _something._

When they walk out into the sun, Sam vehemently denying that he feel asleep during Shavasana and Nat claiming she heard him snore, Steve’s heart jumps when he catches sight of Bucky Barnes. He’s texting, a few minutes early from when they said to meet, leaning against the wall next to the entrance to the gym. He looks up as Steve approaches and breaks out into a beautiful smile, one that brings butterflies to Steve’s stomach.

“Steve!” He says, pocketing his phone and standing up tall. He’s in dark wash jeans and a smooth, deep-red t-shirt, loose fitting but still showing off his arms. His hair is down and straight, one side tucked behind an ear, the other flowing free.

Steve drops his duffle on the ground. “Bucky,” he says warmly, reaching for an embrace and receiving one. He loves the feeling of being in his arms, like he’s sinking into a bean bag or wrapping himself in a blanket.

“That’s Bucky?” Sam asks.

“Yep,” Natasha responds.

Steve barely pays any attention to his friends, given that the hug has turned into a series of kisses, little teasing pecks that make Steve want to dive in for more. Steve’s hands go to play with Bucky’s hair as Bucky grips his thin arms in his hands, stroking up to his shoulder.

“And he’s in the—” Sam starts.

“Yep,” Natasha says.

“Okay. Okay,” Sam says. “Okay. And you really can’t—”

“Nope,” Natasha says.

Steve pulls back, combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair one last time. He struggles to pull his eyes away from Bucky’s sparkling blue ones, always with a little hint of mirth at the corner. He eventually manages, looking back to his friends with a sheepish smile. Sam’s never been very comfortable talking about sex, or public displays of affection, and he looks shell-shocked by the display.

“Sorry, guys!” Steve says as Bucky tucks him under an arm. “Sam, this is Bucky. Bucky, Sam.”

Cordially, Bucky reaches out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

Sam takes his hand, jaw working slightly underneath his skin. “You too,” he responds, voice slightly off its usual tone.

“Did you enjoy your yoga class?” Bucky asks, always so comfortable with conversation.

“He got some good sleep,” Natasha says, slightly accusatory.

“I did _not_ sleep,” Sam says, seeming to find his voice again. “And if I did, it’s because we were out ‘til three AM Friday. Fucked my whole schedule up.”

“You _were_ up late,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s shoulder.

“So were you,” Steve says back, bumping his other shoulder against Bucky’s chest. “Do anything fun?

“Nah. Unfortunately I was caught up with some last minute work. Very annoying,” Bucky says.

“Work! Work. That’s good. Work,” Sam says. Steve frowns. Is he still nervous about the PDA? They are only half hugging now. “What do you do, Bucky?” Sam asks.

“I work at an import export company,” Bucky explains.

“Mhm. Okay. That’s great. Good stuff,” Sam says, nodding much too hard.

“Sam…” Natasha sighs. “Well, hopefully you’re not too tired, Bucky.”

“I’m good. Things got cleared up pretty quickly,” Bucky says.

“What went wrong?” Steve asks.

Bucky sighs. “A shipment came in that was less than expected for the third time this month. Turns out, one of the distributers was trying to skim the books. I had to go on location and determine the best course of action.”

“Yikes,” Steve says. “I’ve had to deal with some shitty distributers before, hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Bucky shrugs a shoulder. “It was messy, but we managed to get what we paid for.”

“Messy?” Sam’s voice wavers slightly.

Bucky nods. “Took some time to clean up.”

“Sorry Bucky,” Steve frowns, squeezing his hip in a consoling manner. “Hope you don’t have to deal with them again.”

Bucky smiles at Steve. “Oh I won’t, baby.”

“Oh my God,” Sam mutters, and Steve blushes over his discomfort with the pet name.

“Now, I believe we are getting some ice cream?” Steve says, trying to end this endless awkwardness.

“Of course, sweetheart. Sam, Natasha, would you care to join us?”

“Nope,” Natasha says, smiling thinly. “You two enjoy.” She then grabs Sam’s arm and steers him away.

“They are _not_ subtle,” Steve says as his friends rush into the crowd of people working their way down the street.

“About what?” Bucky asks.

“Trying to leave us alone,” Steve says. He thought it was pretty obvious with Sam’s discomfort and Natasha’s short answers. He hopes they warm up to Bucky at some point soon, he’d love to have him over properly.

Bucky snorts, then reaches down to grab Steve’s duffle bag.

“I can take that,” Steve says immediately.

“I know,” Bucky says, tangling his right hand with Steve’s left. “Which way we going, sweetheart?”

Steve lets the bag thing go, annoyed at how touched he is. “Just a few blocks,” he says.

They don’t talk much on the way there, Steve happily enjoying the sun and the feeling of another man’s hand in his own. Bucky’s hoisted the duffel effortlessly over his own shoulder, and it taps against his back with each step he takes.

They duck into a small yet crowded ice cream shop a few blocks away and order. Steve gets chocolate with brownies and Bucky gets, to Steve’s endless amusement, vanilla with sprinkles.

“Vanilla?” Steve asks, disbelieving as they sit down at one of the tables outside. “With _sprinkles?”_

“With sprinkles,” Bucky confirms, already digging in with his spoon.

“How boring and gay, all at the same time,” Steve says. “Let me have some.”

Bucky chuckles and pushes the cup towards him. “There’s nothing _less_ boring than sprinkles. They are, inherently, exciting.”

“To look at, sure, but taste-wise? Ice cream’s supposed to be sweet and smooth, not bitter and crunchy,” Steve says, eating some of his anyway.

“Well, maybe I got all the sweetness I need from you, sugar,” Bucky says, grinning.

Steve snorts. “I can see where the smoothness comes into play too,” he says dryly, and Bucky laughs.

They chat as they eat, and Steve learns the Bucky hates alternative rock and loves the blues, can speak Russian, Romanian, and English, in that order, and would rather fight a hundred duck sized horses than a horse sized duck.

Steve spills that he likes alternative rock but doesn’t love it, knows English, French, and a little bit of Irish, and would also rather fight a hundred duck sized horses than a horse sized duck.

“I mean, it wouldn’t be necessarily _easier_ to fight, it’ll probably take longer, but they all take one hit max, and defensively you can take a lot more than one horse to the shin,” Steve says.

“Exactly!” Bucky responds, leaning over the table with a face full of delight. “And people keep saying that they’d overwhelm you, but, you know, the trick is to back yourself into a corner to keep them in your sights. Then it’s just target practice.”

“Plus,” Steve continues, fishing a brownie out of the melted remains of his ice cream. “Ducks can fly, but horses can’t. How the hell are they gonna overwhelm you if they keep running into each other?’’

“ _Yes._ Yes Steve. You understand me,” Bucky says face split into the happiest of smiles. Steve’s heart starts to pound at the sight of him, quite literally palpitating just due to his presence, so much so that Steve wonders if he forgot his pill this morning.

“Let’s take a walk,” Steve offers. His leg is restless and his heart is beating too hard. He needs to find an outlet for all this sugar so he can calm himself down a bit.

They leave the shop hand in hand, wandering around the busy streets of Brooklyn without a destination in mind, enjoying the noon day sun.

“I’m really happy you texted me back, Steve.” Bucky says, his duffle back once again thrown over his shoulder.

“Yeah, me too,” Steve says. He looks down at the sidewalk a moment, watching both their feet as they walk along the ground.

“I, uh, spoke with Natasha,” Steve brings up, a little quieter.

Bucky squeezes his hand in response.

“She told me about the home she was in when she got here, how your family owns it, and how you’d sometimes go and play with them,” Steve says. “I don’t really know the reason why she was there, or how she ended up there, but I at least know you seemed to have made her time a little better.

Bucky nods. “Natasha took a long time to open up, I remember. I’m glad she has someone like you in her life.”

Steve smiles at the ground.

“I still try to get there when work’s not being a nuisance, but it’s harder as I get more and more responsibility.”

“CEO’s a big job,” Steve says. He’s already swamped trying to manage a simple coffee shop, he can’t imagine what it takes for Bucky to run a whole company.

“I also have a lot of people that want my Dad’s job, that don’t think I’m qualified for it.” Bucky sighs. “They don’t think it’s fair for me to get it just because I’m the first born son. Dad’s getting older though, getting tired, and he needs to make a decision soon. I’m still number one, but I have a lot of people that I need to prove wrong.”

Steve chews his lips thoughtfully, trying to figure out what to say.

“It sounds like a lot of pressure,” Steve says. He realizes they’re only a few blocks from his place, and gently steers them in that direction. “But I also think that you’re the kind of person that would do well in power.”

“You think?” Bucky asks, and Steve stops him and pulls him out of the flow of pedestrian traffic.

“I do, Buck,” Steve starts. His heart had calmed down, but something else has taken its place. “You listen to people, like _actually_ listen when people speak, which is rare. You visit kids at halfway houses, you track down the guy who helped out your mother on a plane, though, I guess that wasn’t a completely selfless move,” Steve says with a wink, and Bucky cracks a smile.

“You massaged my back after my spine disagreed with our sex position, you took out my Goddamn trash for me. Frankly, you’d be the best in charge.”

Bucky ducks his head slightly, staring at the ground by Steve’s feet. “Nice isn’t usually what people say when asked about the qualities of good CEOs,” he says with a depreciating snort.

“Fuck that,” Steve says, and Bucky looks up. Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “There’s too many rich people out there who’ve forgotten what it’s like down here. Too many businesspeople cutting corners and exploiting workers and dodging taxes and hiring people to sit their ass in Congress and tell legislators how to vote. Yeah, sure, you need to be forceful and decisive and all that shit, but that’s no excuse for being a bully. If you ask me, we need more men like you. You can get things done, but you don’t forget about the little guys. Your charity is more than a checkbook, you pay your dues. You’ve got heart _,_ Bucky.”

Bucky’s still after Steve’s speech, staring at him with soft, wide eyes, strands of his hair shifting slightly in the gentle wind.

“You really think that?” Bucky asks, quietly.

Steve uncrosses his arms and raises his chin, trying to import as much fire into his expression as possible.

“It’s only been a few dates, but I know what I know and I said what I said.” Then, more softly, he adds, “you’re _good,_ Bucky.”

It’s imperative, right here, right now, that Bucky understands the depth of emotion that Steve Rogers is capable of. He’s never felt like this with a lover before, never felt the urge to defend someone else so fiercely and completely, it almost shocks him.

“I was wrong,” Bucky says, very quiet. “I’ll never be able to repay God for allowing me to meet you.”

They share a hug on the Brooklyn street.

Bucky drops Steve off at his place, going so far as to walk him up the inside steps before finally relinquishing his duffle. They share a long kiss before Bucky finally says goodbye.

Steve closes the door behind him with a click, and twists the two locks. He drops his bag on the ground for now, then lifts his hand slowly to rest on his lips.

“Steve?”

Steve blinks up to see Sam, with his books spread out on the table, half up out of his chair. Steve wonders what look he has on his face to make him so alarmed.

“Something stupid is happening,” Steve says.

“What? What happened?” Sam asks worriedly.

“I think I’m falling for him,” Steve says. What else could describe the roaring urge to chase after Bucky as he climbed into his car? The need to protect, that desire to be with someone else when they’re not there?

“With… Bucky? Are you sure?”

“I’ve never felt like this before, Sam.” He says as he goes to the kitchen and digs around the fridge, pulling out leftovers from last night and throwing them in the microwave.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam’s looking at him softly, almost sadly.

“No.” He shakes his head, then stops himself and sighs. “Uh, maybe later, after I shower, and nap,” he says.

Sam nods, sitting back down in his chair.

Steve grabs his bag and his food and goes to his room, feeling Sam’s eyes on him until he shuts his door.

He eats at his desk, snorting when he sits down on the stool. It feels like there isn’t a place in this room Bucky hasn’t burned his presence into. His bed, his wall, his chair, even the air seems to remember him, thicker than it was before.

Or maybe, Steve thinks a little later as he sneezes rapidly three times in a row, he needs to replace his air filter.

He gets up and heads over to the giant state of the art air purifier he’s got churning in the corner of his room. A red ‘change filter’ is blinking up top.

Steve steps out into the hall closet to grab a replacement.

Steve’s known for a long time that he and his shitty body is going to cost a lot of money. He knows the value of preventative care, knows the price of a needles and pills and inhalers, knows everything about all the different types of doctors’ visits, and knows, twice, how it feels to ride in the back of an ambulance.

He milked every last drop of the student healthcare in college. After he graduated, he had a brief, terrifying period of unemployment where he thought he’d have to burden his mother by going back on her plan. He became a manager at a superstore, just high up enough to qualify for their basic plan so he could continue to afford his pills.

He worked there, unhappy, until his mother died, and he found out the reason she was penniless was not only due to her medical bills, but because she was pouring every last drop of her savings into a whole life insurance plan for her only son. Sarah Rogers was smart, and knew Steve was going to need care for the rest of his life, so she set up a plan to give him the biggest payout she could possibly afford to pay into.

She got it before her diabetes really started wreaking havoc, before her high blood pressure began crumbling her arteries, before the night she put herself to bed for the last time, the stroke killing her in her sleep.

“ _Don’t just survive, Stevie,_ ” she had said in her will. “ _Live._ ”

So Steve gave his two weeks, sold her house and acquired her debts, applied for a short-term healthcare plan, took the life insurance payout and poured it, and his heart, into a tiny coffee shop with the best damn coffee this side of the river.

It’s because of her Steve gets to live his dream now, to make enough to pay an extra hundred or so a month for a premium plan to prevent and treat all the maladies she was forced to suffer through. She took on the burden of his survival, just so he could have a semblance of a life, and every day of his life since then, Steve doesn’t take that for granted.

“Steve?”

A nurse stands in the doorway of the waiting room. Steve pulls his eyes away from the news playing on the single television in the room and jumps up to head to the back.

It’s been a few weeks since ice cream with Bucky, and Steve’s floating on cloud nine. They’ve met twice more, once for a walk in the park and once for another dinner, Bucky’s choice this time. Both times ended up back at Steve’s place, Bucky trying his best split Steve’s ass open, and Steve’s ass remaining just as tight as before (He has yet to tell Bucky he’s been actively working against him with the stair machine at the gym.)

It’s June 1st now, which means monthly B12 shot time. This appointment just so happens to collide into his yearly physical, so he’s scheduled them together to get just one co-pay. He’s already worked this morning, once again dodging question about Bucky from an ever persistent, ever curious staff. Darcy and Natasha did give him shit when he came in with a limp one day, though that was mostly due to his leg falling asleep and not as much Bucky’s fault.

The nurse leads him to the back and puts him on the scale. He’s a hundred and five pounds, (a new record), and the still the same height he was when he was fourteen. He’s ushered into a room, and the nurse pulls his file. She must be fairly new, as her eyes go wide at the size of it.

“Come here often?” She comments, flipping through the endless pages.

Steve grins.

She straps his arm in the pressure cuff and pokes at him for a minute. His heart rate is slow, his blood pressure is slightly higher than normal and slightly lower than high, and his temperature is 98.1.

He’s asked the usual questions. Yes he’s still on beta-blockers, yes he still feels palpitations, yes it’s probably because he drinks. Yes he’s still on PrEP, over fifty different men in the past year, condoms all of the time. Okay, most of the time.

She checks his eyes (“no complications from surgery”), checks his ears (“yeah the left one doesn’t work that well”), checks his nose (“I use nasal spray”).

And more questions:

“You drink?”

“Occasionally.”

“Illegal drugs?”

“Nope.”

“Smoking?”

“My lungs would probably shrivel up and die.”

“So, no. You’re on the corticosteroid for you asthma? How’s that?”

“It’s working, haven’t needed the albuterol in a while.”

“Your back? How has that been treating you?”

“It still hurts pretty often,” Steve says.

“Upper? Lower?”

“Lower.”

She jots something down. “Dr. Cho will be right in,” she smiles, and heads out.

Steve lies down on the white sheet as he waits, wondering, idly, how he’s still alive.

“Steve?” Dr. Cho says walking in. “How’s my favorite patient?”

Steve smiles, sitting up. He’s been seeing Dr. Cho since after he moved on from the pediatrician. She’s seen it all, from his freedom from his back brace, to his diabetes scare which turned out to be a development of pernicious anemia which required daily, then weekly, now monthly, doctor administered B12 shots, to his eye surgery, then his _corrective_ eye surgery, (both not covered by insurance), his fall into promiscuity and the start of his PrEP regime, three checkups after three hospital worthy asthma attacks, his rising blood pressure, his mother’s death, and now, his spine starting to degenerate due to poorly-treated scoliosis.

“Favorite because I’ve probably singlehandedly funded your kid’s college fund,” Steve quips.

“Both, actually,” she says, and Steve laughs.

She touches him all over, feels his heart beat and lungs breathe and looks in his eyes and ears, then tells him he’s only five pounds from a healthy weight, keep it up. She then berates him for not using condoms, and reminds him that drinking, even in moderation, is not a good thing to do with all his medications.

“Now, onto your back. It says here it’s hurting still, has it been any worse?”

“There’s been times it’s been worse,” Steve says. “Usually when I’m being put into odd positions.”

“Are you in odd positions often?”

“Depends on the man, really,” Steve winks, getting a laugh for his troubles.

“I want to do an X-ray, see if the curve is getting more extreme,” she says. “If it does, you may be a candidate for surgery.”

“That’s covered, right?”

“Yes.” She clicks her pen. “Now. How’ve you been, Steve?”

“I’m pretty good. The shop’s going really well and is churning out a regular profit. Haven’t had an art sale in a while,” Steve shrugs.

“Interpersonal relationships?”

“I met someone that’s not a one night stand,” he says.

“That’s good! Be safe, use a condom.”

“Scouts honor.”

“How about your appearance, you told me you were fighting with some issues with it before?”

Steve shrugs a bony shoulder. “I’ll never be a big guy, but going to gym and yoga has made me lean and flexible, at least.”

And more questions. How have you been since your mom’s death, have you thought of killing yourself, how often do you go to therapy. Steve answers “okay, no, once a month.”

Dr. Cho administers his B12 shot, the needle barely causing Steve to flinch, then puts a cotton swab somewhere cotton swabs really shouldn’t go. Then he pees in a cup and someone takes it, then someone else takes a bunch of blood, too, and he’s given a series of pamphlets on STD’s with a pointed look. After, he’s given an X-ray, and waits for the results to be read.

Hours later, Steve leaves the facility exhausted and probably a pound lighter, and he shells out the money for a car to take him home because he feels too exhausted to deal with the subway.

Dr. Cho says that after his blood tests come back, if his B12 is high enough, they can switch him to pills. Unfortunately, results of his X-ray shows his spine is the same shape it usually is, nothing more, so he has to wait for it to degenerate further before surgery becomes an option. The STD tests always make Steve anxious as they take a few days to get back, because he knows he’s not perfect, and neither is PrEP, and he’s having too much sex with too many people not to use condoms.

All in all, Steve hates the yearly physicals, because it always feels like nothing gets better while they put him on another medication, and, despite it all, he _still_ can’t breathe right when he goes up a staircase.

Steve collapses into his bed and curls himself up in the blanket as the sun burns outside, staring for a moment at the half finished art piece he has on his easel. Feeling the kind of bold that only comes with exhaustion and delirium, he grabs his phone.

**Bucky**

_Hey, can you come over tonight?_

Steve immediately realizes that he sounds like he’s searching for a booty call, and scrambles to type something else before Bucky sees.

_Had kinda a rough day._

‘ _And you make things better_ ,’ he types, then he deletes the message and locks his phone. He stares at the ceiling.

“Fuck it,” he says, then he retypes the message and hits send.

He locks his phone and buries his head under the blanket, and sits there, pretending not to count the seconds.

His phone vibrates.

_I’m so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. I wish I could be there for you, but I’m stuck dealing with a few fires at work._

_I’m hoping to be done by nine. I can head over right after._

Steve smiles, sad but understanding.

_Don’t worry :), I’ll have to go to bed early tonight anyway, morning shift tomorrow._

_If you’re up after I’m done, maybe I can give you a call?_

_I’d like that._

Steve wakes up to the sound of a knock on his door. Natasha stands in the doorway with her hip cocked against the frame, wearing black jeans and a white tank top, hair wet and slightly wavy around her shoulders.

“Sleeping during the day is only a good thing when you work nights, Steve,” She says in her usual flat, teasing tone.

Steve puts an arm over his eyes, blocking his view of Natasha. Under the blanket, he stretches his legs long, and lets out a low groan from the back of his throat.

“How hard is it to become a male stripper?” He muses out loud.

“Well, you’d need a big dick, first.”

Steve is surprised into laughter, laughing so hard his chest hurts. “Oh, _fuck_ you,” he gasps, tears pricking his eyes.

Natasha gives him a patient smile, then slaps the doorframe with her hand. “Come on, get up, were gonna make dinner.”

Natasha bullies Steve out of bed, then Steve waves her off as he changes into something semi-presentable. He meanders out into the kitchen. Across the room, Nat had turned on the news.

“… _after his announcement that he was shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries. The previous head and now second-in-command Obadiah Stane claims the decision is on hold by the board until after Tony Stark can prove he is mentally sound after his kidnapping. In local news, a fire has broken out in Red Hook_ …”

“Quit watching TV and start peeling the sweet potatoes,” Natasha says. Natasha’s put a long piece of beef in a bag, and is currently mixing a delicious smelling marinade in a bowl on the counter. Clint’s slicing cucumbers, looking slightly put out, like the idea of actually cooking food is appalling to him. Steve peels his eyes away from the screen, feeling sorry for Stark.

Sam stomps in around the time the steak was cooking and the sweet potatoes were on their last roast. He drops immediately down on the couch and groans, body deflating.

“How come Sam doesn’t have to help?” Clint pouts at Natasha.

“Sam _works,_ ” Natasha says.

“And he’s a full-time student,” Steve adds.

“Got that right,” Sam says, eyes closed as he lounges.

“Oh, you don’t think fighting the tracksuit maf—” Clint cuts off suddenly.

Steve’s stealing bits from the salad, so it takes him a moment to realize the awkwardness of the atmosphere after Clint’s hastily cut off outburst.

“You okay, Clint?” Steve asks. “Wait… what were you saying?”

“Uh. Nothing.”

Steve frowns. “Tracksuits?”

“No! I didn’t say anything like that! What are you talking about, Steve?” Clint laughs, nervous.

Tracksuits… where has he heard about that before? “Clint… are these the guys at your apartment? The ones that keep raising your rent?”

“I, uh. It’s.” Clint glances over at Natasha, who gives him a blank look back.

Clint swears.

Steve continues. “The mafia guys?” It clicks, and Steve’s eyes widen. “The tracksuit mafia, _that’s_ what you called them. Have you filed a complaint? Or called the police?” Steve asks. Clint shouldn’t have to deal with this on his own.

The timer dings.

“Potatoes! Let’s eat potatoes,” Clint says loudly, scrambling for oven mitts.

“Clint, stop avoiding—”

“What did you put in these, red peppers? Rosemary? They smells amazing, Steve,” Clint says, grabbing them out of the oven. “How’s the steak coming Nat?”

“Clint,” Steve says, forcefully.

“Dammit, look.” Clint sighs, scraping the potatoes into a bowl. “Yes, there’s been a few _small_ issues with my landlords, but I’ve filed complaints with the property authorities and the police, and they’re being processed. So let’s just let the system work, yeah?”

Steve doesn’t like it. “Tell us what’s going on, maybe I can help?”

“No, Stevie, don’t worry about it. Let the police do what they do.”

“But—”

“If the police come back with anything, I’ll let you know, okay?” Clint says with an air of finality.

“Maybe if you just told—”

Steve’s questioning is paused by the sound of the buzzer for the front door. Clint nearly runs to grab it.

“Who is it?” He says in the machine.

A man with a heavy Russian accent says, “delivery.”

Clint visibly swallows. “For who?” He asks.

“Steve Rogers,” the voice says, and everyone turns towards him. Steve shrugs.

“ _From_ who?” Clint asks.

The voice outside sounds annoyed. “From Mr. Barnes,” it says.

Steve relaxes, then gets excited. A delivery?

“Oh,” he says, a bit embarrassed. He jumps from his seat. “I’ll head down.”

“I’ll come with,” all three of the apartment members say.

Steve rolls his eyes. All this talk about the Russian mafia has made everyone nervous. “No, you’ll all stay here,” he commands, then he ducks out of the apartment in his socks.

When he opens the front door, it’s to a very large, very muscular man, with a serious face and a full suit and tie, holding a wicker basket in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

Steve blinks several times, blinded by the juxtaposition.

“Delivery from Mr. Barnes to Steve Rogers,” he says, and Steve is handed both the basket and the flowers, before the man heads down the steps and to the sidewalk.

“Thank you!” Steve calls after him, and the man give a little wave before starting up the street. He looks down at the flowers to see a small, handwritten note attached to the front. He puts the basket down and flicks open the card, which says:

_A little something for your rough day._

_-BB_

Steve feels his weak heart flutter. In his hand, wrapped in plastic, is twenty five brightly colored tulips, arranged artfully around a few sprigs of leaves.

Bucky bought him flowers. He bought him _flowers._ No one’s ever bought Steve flowers before. Steve feels his chest ache.

The basket contains an array of chocolates: chocolate covered pretzels, blocks of fudge, decorated truffles, and even more things hidden underneath. Steve wonders if he picked up on his love of chocolate from the ice cream shop. A smile teases at his lips, and his eyes feel misty at his thoughtfulness.

Steve takes a whiff of the flowers, then immediately sneezes. He clears his throat, slightly embarrassed at his own behavior, and turns around to head back in, only to find all three of his roommates staring back at him.

Steve blushes at being caught out like a schoolgirl with a crush. “Seriously guys?” He mutters, then he grabs the basket and pushes past them to go inside.

They follow him back up, Steve taking care to keep the basket away from Clint’s hands. When they get back inside, Natasha digs a vase Steve didn’t know they had from out of the closet, and fills it with water. Steve mumbles a thank you, still swimming with shock and happiness from his surprise gift.

“So I take things are going well with Bucky, then?” Sam asks as they sit down for dinner. They’re eating at the table for once, the TV still on in the background.

“Yeah,” Steve says, a smile trying to fight its way to his lips.

“What were those for?” Clint asks.

“Why do they have to be ‘for’ something? Maybe he’s just being nice,” Sam reasons.

“No, no. Clint’s right,” Steve says. “I had a physical today, and was feeling kinda bad about it, so I asked if Bucky was free to come over. He makes me feel better,” Steve admits the last part almost shyly, looking down at his plate. “He couldn’t make it, said there were a few things he had to deal with at work, but he said he’d call me afterwards. I didn’t expect…” Steve points to the flowers in the sill of the kitchen window, and the basket on the countertop.

“That’s very sweet,” Natasha says, and Steve gives her a genuine smile. The other two men at the table share a look, and Steve suddenly feels both embarrassed and annoyed.

“Fuck you guys, alright, there’s nothing wrong about expressing emotions and feeling good about something he did for me,” Steve snaps.

Sam hurriedly backtracks. “No Steve of course not!”

“Then what’s with the quick looks behind me back? You guys aren’t happy for me, you don’t like Bucky for some reason?”

“It’s not that,” Clint says slowly.

“We’re just a little worried because things seems to moving really fast. After what you told me…” Sam trails off.

Steve swallows down some of his anger, realizing they were just worried for him. “Look, I get it, I’m usually with assholes. But Bucky’s different and I know it, and I know to be careful. You guys need to trust me to make my own decisions.” Steve says.

“I know, Steve, and we’re sorry. He’s clearly important to you, we’ll be more open minded,” Sam says. “Clint?”

“Yeah, what he said,” Clint mumbles. “You gonna share some of that gift basket Stevie?”

Steve sighs and lets it drop.

They end up sprawled around the coffee table, chatting amicably despite the earlier tension, the gift basket broken open. Steve keeps most of it for himself, but he does let Clint have a few chocolate covered pretzels, and gives a truffle, each, to Sam and Natasha.

“Oh look, they put the fire out,” Steve says, breaking into hazelnut truffle.

On TV, a woman was standing in front of the smoldering shell of a brick warehouse, still with heavy black smoke coming from every window.

_“Over 60 firefighters responded to this sudden fire that broke out in a Brooklyn warehouse this morning. You can see here behind me that the fire has finally been put out, though black smoke still seeps through the windows. They still haven’t determined the cause for the fire’s start, though some believe foul play._

_“The warehouse itself is owned by Stark Industries. Now, the contents are proprietary and carefully protected, but the firefighters report that everything inside has been completely destroyed beyond all recognition. Only minor injuries were sustained by some of the surrounding pedestrians, and there were no fatalities…”_

Steve’s phone starts to ring, and he realizes, with a jolt of happiness, that it’s Bucky. He picks up right away.

“Hey,” he says, smiling like an idiot into the phone.

 _“Hey, sweetheart, how are you doing?”_ Bucky’s tinny voice responds.

“Better now,” Steve says, then he blushes and stands up, grabbing for the basket to take back to his room. “You finish dealing with those fires you were talking about?” He asks.

Behind him, Clint starts choking on one of the pretzels Steve gave him. Serves him right for making fun of him earlier, Steve thinks.

 _“Still smokin’, but we got through everything we needed to, even got done a little early.”_ Bucky says.

Steve goes to his room, sliding the door shut behind him with a click. He falls onto his bed.

_“How are you doing, doll? Rough day?”_

Steve grimaces. “Yeah. I, uh. I’ve got a few medical things I deal with, and today I had a physical, and it was just plain exhausting. Not just getting blood drawn and getting X-rays, but asking me all these questions about my life and how things are. I hate being reminded about everything that’s wrong with me,” Steve finishes quietly, eyes closed.

 _“I’m so sorry Steve,”_ Bucky says. _“For what it’s worth, I think you’re strong for going through all that you’ve gone through, and still maintaining such a positive outlook.”_

Steve knows rationally that Bucky only really knows about his spine issues, and maybe guessed at a few of his others, but he pretends that Bucky’s saying it while knowing everything that’s wrong with him, and holds on to the compliment like a flame.

“Thanks Bucky,” Steve says, then, without an ounce of embarrassment, he adds, “I wish you were here.”

_“So… I actually had to go offsite for work today. I’m actually not that far from you…”_

Steve swallows. “Yeah? I wouldn’t be out of the way or anything?”

_“No, though I’d happily go out of the way just to be near you.”_

Steve’s cheeks heat. “You couldn’t stay for too long, I should be in bed by 9:30 so I’m at least functional tomorrow.” That only gave them a few hours together.

 _“Even if I only got to be with you for five minutes, it would be the best five minutes I’d’ve spent the whole day,”_ Bucky says.

“O-Okay,” Steve stutters out, somehow still floored whenever Bucky states something so romantic so bluntly like that.

“ _I’ll be there soon, doll,”_ Bucky says.

“I’m really looking forward to it, Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky arrives about twenty minutes later, and Steve swallows his tongue. Bucky’s dressed in a deep navy suit, with a gray waistcoat and a red tie underneath.

“You… damn. You really get dressed up for work, huh,” Steve says. He makes a mental note that he has to have Bucky fuck him in that suit.

Bucky smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I like to look nice for all of my affairs,” he says.

“Come in,” Steve says.

Bucky gives a quick hello to his roommates, who respond with varying degrees of energy, before following Steve into his room.

When Bucky closes the door behind them, Steve’s hit with a wave of awkwardness. In this situation, he’s been making moves on the other man, maybe kissing him up against the door, enticing him into an orgasm.

But, for the first time in a while, Steve doesn’t want that. Or, well, a part of him does, eyeing Bucky as he takes off his jacket and drapes it over the dresser, leaving him in the silver waistcoat and tie. And yet… Steve just want to hold him close and crawl into him, just for a little while. He wants him to whisper that things will be okay in his ear, he wants him to protect him. From what? He doesn’t know.

“Steve,” Bucky starts, standing in front of Steve with a hand outstretched towards his face. “Are you okay?”

“Bucky,” Steve starts, and he bites the inside of his lip, trying to figure out how to ask for comfort. “Could you… could we…” He stumbles over his words. He could have sex with a man six ways to Sunday, but this? Intimacy? How do you ask for someone to be gentle with you, when nothing else in the world has?

“Anything,” Bucky says. The back of his hand makes contact with Steve’s cheek, his knuckles dragging against the skin lightly.

Steve shivers. “Just… stay with me for a little while.”

“Of course,” Bucky says.

“Let’s watch a movie?” Steve offers, and Bucky nods, loosening his tie.

Bucky kicks off his shoes and sits on the bed with his back against the wall, resting on Steve’s blue comforter. Steve lies down and makes himself comfortable between Bucky’s legs, resting his head on Bucky’s upper thigh. The fabric of the suit feels expensive under his skin.

“What do you wanna watch?” Steve asks.

“Mmm. Something funny? Light-hearted?”

“A rom-com it is,” Steve says, tuning into Sam’s streaming account.

As they lounge, Sandra Bullock doing her thing on screen, Steve allows himself to relax into Bucky. Bucky’s hand finds its way into Steve’s hair, and Steve hums in approval as he starts to scratch his scalp, playing absently with the strands. He feels good here. Safe. Even his back doesn’t hurt as much. And Steve thinks he could really, really get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys, let me know what you think!


	5. A Touch of the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday!
> 
> Slightly shorter one today. This is smut until "They lay there for a moment" Then it's fluff! Cuteness, until plot rears its ugly head again.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: 2/18/2021 More FANTASTIC art from [kocuria! Very sfw, very sweet <3](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/)

# Chapter 5: A Touch of the Devil

Bucky gets hard.

He’s in his twenties, in the prime of his life with a warm body in his lap, of _course_ he gets hard. Steve can feel it against his back halfway through the movie. Amazingly though, Bucky doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t grind into Steve’s back, or reach into his pants, or suggest Steve move closer. He just continues to run his fingers through Steve’s hair, like nothing was happening.

Steve can’t remember the last time he’s let himself been held like this, without the expectation of sex over his head. It’s not that he doesn’t like having sex, or wouldn’t be up to it, but… He’s content here. Cozy and warm, surrounded by Bucky.

Eventually, Bucky’s erection fades away and the night grows long. Steve flips off the TV when the movie ends and hears the sound of light snoring. Steve smiles, turning over on his stomach to observe Bucky’s sleeping face. His head has fallen to the side, and his hair is stuck to the wall behind him.

Steve climbs up Bucky’s body, straddling his thighs. Bucky wakes with a small, low noise, eyes opening halfway to look at him. A smile rolls across his face, sluggish and sleepy.

“Hi,” Steve says, nose a few inches from Bucky’s.

“Hi,” Bucky responds, and Steve leans forward and kisses him, long and slow.

“You have to go,” Steve says into his lips, then he nips at Bucky’s chin.

“Yeah?” Bucky says. Steve tilts Bucky’s head back and to the side, and he kisses down his chin until he’s right under his ear.

“Yeah,” Steve’s whispers into Bucky’s skin, then he begins to suck lightly on the top of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky exhales slowly. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhmm…” Steve hums. “But first…”

Bucky chuckles. Steve can feel it echo in his own chest.

“What’s gonna happen first?”

“Well, for one, I’ve _got to_ ride you in this suit,” Steve says with a grin. He makes his point by grinding into Bucky, and Bucky moans and buries his head into Steve’s neck. Bucky’s hands reach for Steve, sliding underneath his shirt and grabbing at his slim waist.

“You like the suit, baby?” Bucky says, hands helping guide Steve’s hips.

“‘ts fucking sexy,” Steve says.

“Good to know,” Bucky pants. He lifts up Steve’s shirt, and Steve lets him pull it over his head.

“You know, I dress like this every day for work,” Bucky says.

“Then I guess I gotta surprise you at work one day,” Steve grins, then he stands up on the bed, working on his pants.

Bucky palms himself in his slacks, gazing up at Steve with unfettered warmth. His suit is rumpled, his hair is messy, and he’s grinning up at Steve like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Now that is a surprise I can get behind,” Bucky says lowly. He unzips his pants and pulls himself out, stroking himself to hardness. Steve’s mouth waters at the sight.

“I like all this talk of getting behind me,” Steve quips. He pulls lube and a condom out from the drawer next to them, then straddles Bucky again, lining their cocks up.

“You know…” Bucky starts as Steve pours lube on his fingers, taking care not to get any on Bucky’s pants. Steve reaches a hand beneath him and slides two fingers inside, breath hitching as he starts to work himself open.

Bucky watches, enraptured, as he grabs the lube for himself. He coats a hand, then grasps both their cocks in his hands. Steve tilts his head back and moans as Bucky strokes them together, coating them in slick.

“I know…” Steve repeats, trying to return to the conversation as he preps himself.

“Sorry sweetheart, you’ve got me distracted,” Bucky breathes. “Look so beautiful getting ready for me. Love to see you move, baby boy.”

Steve shivers and whines.

“I just wanted to say,” Bucky takes a breath. “I’m not too opposed to the idea of _you_ getting behind _me_ some time,” Bucky says. He’s still jacking them both off, but his voice is a little shy, like he’s not sure it’s okay to admit that he’s versatile.

Steve grins wolfishly, wanting to dispel any perception of judgment for Bucky wanting to bottom. Steve pulls his fingers from his ass, then leans forward to kiss him soundly, chasing his shy expression off his face. When they break apart, Bucky’s face is wild with lust, lips red and eyes dark.

“I’m certainly not opposed to that at all,” Steve winks. “But for now, you’re gonna shift down on the bed and I’m going to ride you.”

Bucky grins. “Yes sir,” he says. Steve helps him roll the condom on, slicking him up with lube.

When Steve starts to sink down, they both moan. Steve’s ass is burning deliciously hot, Bucky’s cock spearing into him endlessly slow, stretching him wide as Steve works his way down. Steve starts to bounce up and down a few inches at a time, biting his lips as he tries to get Bucky deeper inside. Bucky’s eyes are squeezed shut, and his hands are digging bruises into Steve’s hips, helping the motion along.

“How… are you… always… so _tight…_ ” Bucky gasps out. He looks like he’s on the verge of combusting with every movement, panting behind gritted teeth.

Steve smirks. It’s not all bad, being so tiny.

He finally sheaths himself fully, and they both take a moment to feel each other _._ The ache of Bucky’s massive cock is deliciously familiar now, and Steve can’t help but grind his hips in slow, careful circles, voice hitching up an octave when Bucky’s it sings past his prostate.

Bucky grips his hips tighter, like he’s holding onto Steve for dear life. Steve leans over Bucky, arms by his head, and starts, gently, to roll his hips.

“Fuck,” Bucky bites out. Steve has to agree.

Steve starts to work himself on Bucky’s cock, keeping a slow, intense pace. His back flexes with each movement, his ass spread wide and taking every inch of Bucky. Steve exchanges messy kisses with him, too overcome with pleasure to focus on accuracy, moans spilling into Bucky’s mouth as he bounces, bed creaking with each movement. Bucky gazes up Steve with blue-gray eyes, his waistcoat and dress shirt rumpled, hair mussed up on the pillow.

“God,” Steve gasps. Bucky’s cock throbs against Steve’s prostate every time he moves, and the lovely, low level burn caused by the pace builds incessantly inside Steve’s body.

It builds and builds until it engulfs Steve, until his hips start to buck without his permission, the chase for his orgasm overturning itself to instinct.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, oh Bucky…” Steve recites his name like a prayer. Bucky’s head is tossed back, his back arching, muscles stretching long beneath Steve’s body. He’s blissed out, hair spread out like a dark halo around his head, deep, dirty moans getting cut off by desperate gasps as Steve picks up speed on his cock.

“Yes, doll _,_ ” Bucky moans. He grabs Steve’s cock, stroking it as Steve bounces. Steve cries out and fucks into his tight, slick grip, his cockhead sliding in and out of Bucky’s grip, making a lewd, wet noise with each movement.

“I’ve gotta—I need to—” Steve can’t get words out. The only thing he can think is _more,_ and _yes,_ and _faster,_ and _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky._

“Gonna come, baby boy? Gonna come all over me, all over my suit? Mark me up?” Bucky growls out.

Steve feels something possessive take hold of him at the image, and everything begins to crest. “Fuck, fuck, Bucky! Oh _God,”_ Steve shouts, far too loud, as an orgasm hits him hard and fast. His hips jerk spontaneously as he shoots all over Bucky’s waistcoat, dripping into his fist, Bucky stroking him through it.

Steve’s arms give out from under him, and he collapses into Bucky. The last wave of pleasure rolls through Steve’s body from his spine to his feet to the tips of his fingertips, leaving in its wake tingles across his skin. His hips are still moving very slowly over Bucky’s dick, prolonging the sensation as much as possible.

“Mmm…” Steve hums into Bucky’s chest, forgetting for a second where he is. Bucky shifts slightly, and Steve can feel him throb inside of him. Steve noses over Bucky’s neck and kisses him on his collar, sucking lightly at his skin.

Bucky wraps a hand around the back of Steve’s head, finger clutching his hair, encouraging him. Steve’s ass is still flush with Bucky’s hips, and Bucky starts to grind. Steve sucks harder as he feels his abs flex underneath him.

“Steve…” Bucky exhales.

Steve manages to get his legs underneath him and pushes himself up off Bucky’s cock. His thighs shake, and his hole feels loose and open as Bucky’s hard cock slips free, falling against his ruined shirt with a slap.

Steve winks at him, then sleepily crawls down Bucky’s body and lifts up his cock with a hand.

“Baby…?” Bucky asks, breathless.

Steve doesn’t respond, instead rolling the condom off Bucky’s cock. When he manages to pull it off, pre-cum drools from where it collected at the tip, rolling down his shaft in rivulets. Steve reaches hand out to keep Bucky upright, and traces one of them back up to Bucky’s cockhead with his tongue.

“Oh God…” Bucky breathes.

Steve continues to lick up the clear fluid, wrapping his tongue around and up Bucky’s shaft until he’s captured every last drop. Bucky tastes salty, and earthy, and a little like pina colada.

Steve sucks his cock down as far as he can take it. Bucky’s girth spreads his lip wide, and fills his mouth whenever he presses down, making him feel nearly overwhelmed. He picks up what he can’t get with his mouth with his hand, stroking in time with his head bobs. He loves sucking dick, loves being able to bring a man to the brink with just his hand and his tongue.

“Steve, doll, I’m not gonna last, baby,” Bucky looks positively indecent, cock red and wet and disappearing into Steve’s mouth, cum stain on his disheveled waistcoat, fingers of one hand gripping his hair at the scalp, the other grabbing onto the sheets for dear life.

Steve responds by playing with the tip with his tongue, digging it into his slit as if he could pull his cum from him. He strokes his hand fast along the shaft, balls bouncing in time. Bucky tosses his head back, squeezing a pec in his hand, hips beginning to jerk into Steve’s mouth involuntarily. He moans continuously, pitch rising with every second.

Steve holds himself steady, keeping the suction tight and constant. Bucky gasps in what must be warning; seconds after, Steve’s mouth fills with his cum, the ropes coating his mouth and covering his tongue, thick and salty and deliciously Bucky.

Bucky goes taunt, then snaps like a string, collapsing onto the bed with a heavy sigh. Steve let’s Bucky’s cock fall from his mouth, and rests his head on his clothed thigh. Bucky’s dick rolls to the side.

“Sorry I messed up your suit,” Steve mumbles, eyes closing.

Bucky chuckles. “No you’re not.”

Steve laughs. “No. I’m not.”

They lay there for a moment, basking in the afterglow. Steve’s body is screaming at him to go to sleep after his workout, and for once, he wants to indulge it. He’s so content with Bucky here, so comfortable, and for the first time in a long time, thinks about calling into work for something that has nothing to do with illness.

He can’t though, Steve eventually surmises, dragging himself to his feet. But he can still complain about it.

“You sure you can’t stay?” Steve whines. He’s still wobbly on his two legs.

Bucky sits up and steadies him, sitting on the side of the bed. Steve stands between him and they share a long kiss, loose and slow.

“There’s nothing I want more, Steve,” Bucky says. “But I know for a fact I’d never get to work on time. Plus, even as the boss’s son, I might get in trouble if I showed up with your cum on my suit.”

Steve snorts.

“Next time?”

“Next time,” Steve says.

Bucky showers, and Steve slinks out into the living room, searching for something with electrolytes from the fridge. When he enters, he’s greeted by the stares of all three of his roommates, and immediately goes red.

Steve hides his face in the fridge. “Was I too loud again?”

“No.”

“Well, kinda…”

“Yes,” Clint says.

“Just at the end,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes. “Clint’s just jealous he hasn’t been getting any.”

“Sorry,” Steve says.

“Listen man, I got headphones ages ago. I was in a dorm in community college, I get it,” Sam says. “Trust me, you’re a lot better than them.”

“Is Bucky going to be spending the night?” Natasha asks.

“No, he has to go to work,” Steve says, cracking open a sports drink to sip on.

“Work, huh,” Clint says. “That’s pretty late. You know what he’s up to?”

Sam jabs Clint in the chest, and he oofs. Steve’s too tired to care about what’s going on.

“He’s training to replace his father as CEO one day, so I figure it’s gotta take a lot of work.” Plus he took the time out his day to come see him, even after things were busy.

“Did he smell like smoke?” Clint asks, amid the other two’s glares.

“No…?”

“From putting out all those fires earlier,” Clint clarifies, and Steve rolls his eyes at the shitty joke.

“Hey,” Bucky says, walking into the room, and Steve greets him with a smile and a kiss.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

They make their way down the stairs and to the front door. Bucky’s taken his waist coat off and tucked it over his shoulder, and has buttoned the jacket over the dress shirt. Downstairs, his usual black car is waiting.

“I’ve gotta get going, but would you want to go to the beach with me this weekend? Apparently the weather is supposed to be very nice,” Bucky says, as the driver jumps from the car to open up the door for him.

“Yeah, sure, that could be fun,” Steve says, looking over at his driver curiously.

“I’ll text you,” Bucky says, and they share a kiss that makes Steve want to push him back inside and take him for another ride.

They finally part from each other, breathing heavily. “I have to go,” Bucky says quietly, and he kisses Steve just one more time, before heading towards the awaiting car door.

Steve waves to the driver, and the driver grins and tips her hat, before turning away to run back to the front.

And Steve watches him go.

“You keep saying you don’t kiss and tell, even though I know for a fact you’ve told Natasha everything,” Darcy says in an accusing tone. It’s Friday, a couple days since Steve and Bucky’s impromptu date night, and Steve’s restocking inventory, while Darcy counts change for the register.

Steve rolls his eyes. “And how would you know that?” he says, throwing an accusing look in Natasha’s direction.

“You _have_ told me everything, and you _do_ kiss and tell,” Natasha says. She’s working today, but Steve’s setting up for her because she’s also worked last night. He’s planning on helping during the morning rush, before getting some work done in the office, alternating with Natasha throughout the day.

“You told her, but not us?” Peter pipes up from behind the baked-goods display, where he’s meticulously placing various freshly baked tarts and croissants from the bakery down the street.

“Well, for one, you’re fifteen, Peter, so you don’t need to be hearing anything I told Natasha,” Steve says. He steps down from the stool and slides it over to get at another set of cabinets over the counter.

“Okay, now I _really_ want to know.” Darcy says with an eyebrow raise.

Steve snorts. “Get on the grill, girl.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Darcy grins. “At least tell us if he’s cute? Treats you right?”

“He is,” Steve smiles, completely involuntary. “And he does.”

“Ooh!” Peter gasps. “You _like_ like him.”

“I mean, yeah, I—”

Peter and Darcy both ‘ooh’ like grade schoolers, and Steve rolls his eyes again, his cheeks probably stained red.

“Natasha, rescue me,” Steve complains.

Natasha just smirks and starts to sing. “Steve and Buc-ky sittin’ ‘nna tree.”

Darcy and Peter join in. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

“You are all terrible.”

“First comes the love, then comes the marriage, then comes the baby in the ba-by carriage.”

“All of you are fired,” Steve declares.

“Sure, Cap,” Darcy says.

“Gotta buy out my shares first,” Natasha says with a snort.

Doors open at six, and the morning rush begins. Women and men in suits and on phones, getting a fix before the market opens. Dead-eyed secretaries and fast talking assistants ordering ten different things at once. Regulars on their way to opening their own shops, speaking in different languages before they reach the front of the line, and, Steve’s personal favorite, writers and artists trying to meet a deadline or make something new, ordering 30oz coffees with at least four shots and setting up in the corner of the shop. Sometimes, Steve sneaks a cookie into their bags.

After eight, Steve ducks into the back to do some administrative work. Twice, Steve is brought outside. The first time is when an apologetic customer spills two drinks on the floor, and the second time is when a customer who ordered a sausage egg and cheese biscuit with no sausage, no egg, and no cheese, was mad when he received a plain biscuit.

Steve tolerates that for exactly one minute, then gives up and leaves, because it’s his shop and he can do what he wants. As the frustrated customer storms out with a “And I’ll never come back again!” Steve buys a sandwich from himself and eats it in the back room with a cup of tea. At eleven, he takes Natasha’s place at the register.

He gets back to the customer service grind and manages to avoid more back pain until noon. He’s a bit winded at the lunch rush, and is already thinking about how hard he’s going to sleep when he gets home, when someone familiar walks through the door.

Steve pauses in the middle of reciting the type of brews they have today to an elderly woman as Bucky gets in line behind her. He winks at him, and he blushes and returns his attention to the woman with an apology.

“Don’t worry hun, I’da lost my train of thought if I’d seen _that_ too,” she says, and Steve laughs, making sure to drop an extra strawberry cream tart in her bag.

She steps to the side, and Bucky steps up to the counter.

He’s in another suit, this one a light gray with no waistcoat. Underneath is a black dress shirt and black tie, and his hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, low on his neck. He has a bag slung over his shoulder.

“You know, some people would think you’re crazy for going all the way to Manhattan just for a cup of coffee,” Steve says. His face is pulling itself into a smile without his permission, one that’s echoed on Bucky’s face.

* * *

**Image** : [description] | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

“Who says I’m here for the coffee, sugar?” Bucky says.

Steve swallows, and leans over the counter. “I get off in 30,” he says quietly.

“You ‘get off’ at work, Steve? That _can’t_ be sanitary,” Darcy butts in, her hip bumping Steve’s side. “Hi, I’m Darcy, and you must be Bucky.”

“Darcy,” Steve groans.

“I’m taking care of a customer!” She protests, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Gotta make sure Cap’s guy is right for the job.”

Bucky chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “Cap?” He asks curiously.

“‘Cause he’s Captain of Commandos! Best coffee this side of the river,” she says.

“Is that right? Which river?”

“All of them!” Darcy shouts out, Steve mutters, and Natasha echoes with a shit eating grin. Bucky’s eyes light up, and he grins like he’s been given a Christmas gift.

“Can I take your order?” Steve says, trying to escape the relentless ribbing.

“I thought Captains didn’t take orders, they gave them,” Bucky teases.

“You absolute _power_ bottom, Cap!” Darcy gasps, slapping his shoulder with her free hand.

Steve’s face heats up. “How do you know I’m the—uh… Not in front of the high schooler, Darce.”

“Peter’s in the back, Steve,” Darcy says. “Now, more about orders? And giving and taking?”

“I think I’ll have a large coffee, house blend,” Bucky says, thankfully having mercy on Steve.

“Room for cream and sugar?” Steve asks automatically.

“Oh, there’s always room for you, sugar,” Bucky grins, and Darcy just about squeals.

“Christ,” Steve says under his breath, a smile on his lips despite it all. He leaves room in the cup anyways and pawns the order off to Darcy, poking her in the side to try and get her moving. She doesn’t budge.

“Anything else?” Darcy asks.

“A chocolate brownie,” Bucky says, giving Steve a lewd look. “You can eat it with me later when you… ‘get off’.”

Darcy howls with laughter. “Oh, I love him Cap, keep him,” she says, and she finally turns around to make his coffee. Steve glares at her back, then reaches out for one of the brownies in the display case.

He hands it to Bucky, whose eyes are sparkling with mirth. Bucky leans over to kiss him on his cheek, and Steve’s glare slides off his face.

“I’ll see you soon, _Cap_ ,” he says quietly to Steve, then he goes to wait for his drink to be made.

Darcy nearly physically removes him from behind the counter fifteen minutes early, stating she and Peter can handle things until the shifts change. Steve relents, and removes his apron, leaving him in the pink long sleeve and jeans he wears underneath.

Bucky’s sipping his coffee, typing away at his laptop when Steve sidles up to his booth. Bucky gives him a smile and passes Steve the brownie, beckoning him to sit.

“Thanks, though I’m already in a chocolate coma from that gift basket,” he says.

Bucky finishes typing, and clicks something on his laptop, before shutting it and pushing it away, giving Steve his undivided attention. “Are you doin’ okay from when I last saw you?” Bucky asks.

Steve grimaces. “Yeah, better now. I’m sorry for, you know, kinda projecting my bad day all over you.”

Bucky waves it off. “I’m always there for you if you need it, Steve. I don’t know about everything you go through every day, but I hope I can help.”

“You’ve done a lot so far,” Steve says, and Bucky smiles at him sweetly.

Today Steve learns that Bucky likes plants and greenery, and they make general plans to visit a botanical garden. Also today, Steve tells Bucky about his art. He has a small space in a shared gallery across town. Nothing special, but he occasionally gets a sale or two, enough to give him hope that maybe he has something resembling talent. Bucky said he’d like to see it one day, and Steve says:

“Well, you can also just look on the walls.”

“You did these?” Bucky looks around the small café, where a few of Steve’s works hung around the room. He largest is a recreation of the Commandos themselves, his grandfather standing tall and proud in the middle, his team at his sides, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Someone must have told a joke, because they were all mid laugh.

“Those are the Commandos, the nickname for my grandfather’s special forces unit in World War II,” Steve says quietly. “I painted this picture based off a photograph, colorized it myself; they’re the theme of this shop.”

“He looks just like you,” Bucky says, and Steve snorts derisively.

“Maybe if I wasn’t born premature and got enough oxygen at birth,” he mutters, then immediately feels bad. He’s not here to lay his problems down on Bucky, especially his health problems.

Steve leans forward, watching Bucky study the picture. “Want to know a secret? See his ‘right hand man?’”

Steve watches as Bucky studies the dark haired person that Steve’s grandfather had his arm around. They were both laughing, looking into each other’s eyes.

“Was that his secret gay lover?” Bucky asks.

“You see that too, huh.” Steve says grinning. “Nah, that’s a woman.”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes widen, then he grins. “Really?”

“Yep! A secret kept within the Rogers family for ages. My father’s mother disguised herself as a man and fought alongside him. I’m not sure who knew—I think at least the Commandos did, but no one ever said a word.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, and he searches the photograph more thoroughly, like he could somehow tell the difference. “She wasn’t transgender?”

“Nope. Just had the gall to wear pants,” Steve grins. “Still don’t know how she did it. Margaret Carter was her name. They never got married, and she left the field when she had my father out of wedlock. When my granddad died, she raised him alone for a little while, but never stopped working, even after the war ended. She eventually moved on, remarried, but kept Rogers as his last name. Even helped found some of today’s modern intelligence communities.”

“Amazing,” Bucky murmurs, studying the photo intently. “You said this shop is based around them? Could you show me some more stuff?”

“You… really want to see?” Steve asks, dubiously.

Bucky nods.

And that’s how they found themselves a half hour later, knee deep in the box of paraphernalia he keeps in the back, digging through some of his family’s memories. They are sitting on the ground, surrounded by papers and photos, black and white and dusty. There, Steve tells Bucky about Gabe Jones, and his grandson who he keeps in touch with on occasion, still somewhere around DC working for the Government. He talks more about Peggy, the best sharpshooter in the 107th, about Morita and his alleged bad mouth, Dugan and his cigars and terrible singing voice.

It’s nice, digging through all his old family’s stuff. He hadn’t looked through it all since his mom died. It was almost cathartic; he’d seen her side of the family again, it was time again to see his father’s.

“I didn’t know my father too well,” Steve admits a little while later, after a story about his grandad’s rescue of the 107th. “He left when I was young, I… guess I was too expensive?” Steve tries for gallows humor, but misses by a mile if Bucky’s sad look is anything to go by.

“It’s alright,” Steve continues, trying to salvage the mood. “At least I know my grandparents were good people. Maybe it just missed a generation.”

“It sure didn’t miss you,” Bucky says immediately, and Steve blushes, smiling, looking down at the dusty photographs in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Let me know what you think! <3


	6. A Day with The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A use of the f-slur said by brock at the bottom of the chapter
> 
> Lots of sex, we get some of that bottom Bucky we all deserve! Sex is from "Let me make it up to you" and "anxiety ruining"
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit 12/18: Some more lovely art! This one is SFW! Thanks again to [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/).

# Chapter 6: A Day with the Devil

Bucky’s car picks Steve up bright and early Saturday morning, and they kiss and chat on the way to Coney Island. Steve begrudgingly admits that having a car, especially in Brooklyn, does make a difference.

They hold hands as they walk along the boardwalk next to the beach. Bucky’s in a tank and swim shorts, hair tied back and aviators shielding his eyes. Steve’s covered as much of his fair skin as he could and has a pair of sunglasses on as well. It’s crowded, families chatting in various languages as they walk down the boardwalk beyond Brighton Beach.

The walk into the hard stand, and set up towels and an umbrella before stripping off their shirts. While Bucky seems to be content baking in the sun, Steve’s slathered himself in SPF a million and taken refuge under the umbrella. He allows the heat of the day wash over him, the sound of the waves calming his mind. After a while of lounging with eyes half shut, Steve pulls his sketchbook from his bag and lets his pencil drag over the paper, creating half-finished face and bodies and birds from what he sees around him.

By his side, Bucky’s snoring lightly, head tilted sideways as he lies on his back, bronze and baking in the sun, an easy, beautiful model.. Steve can’t help but start a detailed work in his book.

He starts with his abs because he’s thirsty as hell, carving out the barely there lines of them, expanding and falling with Bucky’s breaths. He traces up his chest and to his face, and wishes that Bucky didn’t have his sunglasses on so he can catch his eyes. His hair is fun; Steve spends forever on it, going strand by strand, trying to catch the ‘casually messy’ look it’s fallen into.

Down again he goes, and he’s all business this time and he draws the slight roundness of Bucky’s hips, noticing with a furrowed brow that there were a few bruises on his side, and a small sliver of a scar on his abdomen. Appendix, maybe?

With a critical eye he works the crinkles in Bucky’s deep green swim shorts, traces the hint of his dick, soft and heavy on his right thigh. Down again to his calves, then he lets the picture fade at the ankle. Today’s a good day, he’s not going to ruin it by trying to draw feet.

Outline done, he focuses on details, fixing up the curves of his muscles, adding the towel and sand around him.

* * *

**Image** : Bucky sunbathing | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

So focused as he is, he doesn’t notice the sky darkening, or the waves picking up in ferocity.

Hence why he startles when Bucky yelps, scrambling to his feet as rain begins to pour in sheets.

Steve swears and quickly packs his things, holding his notebook to his chest like a child. They manage to escape back to the boardwalk and under an overhang with a handful of other disgruntled beach goers, bare feet smacking against the hard ground.

Steve bites off a grin at Bucky. He’s pouting, looking like a wet dog, arms crossed and glaring at the sky. Steve’s about to comment when he notices a violent shiver wrack Bucky’s body. Instantly, Steve digs out one of the dry towels from the bottom of his bag and wraps it around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky looks down at him in surprise, but then smiles.

“Thanks Steve,” he says.

“No problem,” Steve says, wondering why his cheeks are red.

When the rain lets up a bit, they change and duck under the umbrella together, working their way into Little Odessa. Steve obviously uses this chance to put his hands all over Bucky again, to Bucky’s endless amusement. The area they are in is clearly familiar to Bucky—he greets several people on the street, some small nods, some kisses on the cheek and quick conversations in Russian.

All the while he has an arm around Steve. The ones who greet Bucky give Steve looks ranging from curious to friendly. Steve feels oddly like he’s being shown off as they head down the city street.

“I work around here when I’m not traveling,” Bucky explains as Steve brings up his observation. “A lot of these people are employees or family members.”

“Ah, I like that you’re so open,” Steve says.

“If they mind that I’m with a man, they wouldn’t be around,” Bucky says simply. “Come on, in here.”

They step into a restaurant, warm and brown toned with booths against the wall. It’s full except for a few tables, but as soon as they walk in, a waiter appears in front of them in an instant, guiding them to a large corner booth in the back of the restaurant.

Steve takes no time in snuggling up next to Bucky. “Have to make sure you’re completely warm,” Steve says, only mostly joking, as he tucks into Bucky’s side.

“I submit to your inspection,” Bucky says gravely, then he kisses the top of Steve’s head.

A short, stout, couple, rosy cheeks and bright smiles, appear at their table. They greet Bucky in… Romanian? And share a short conversation.

“And this,” Bucky squeezes the arm around Steve’s shoulder, “is my boyfriend Steve,” he says.

Steve tenses immediately, and Bucky makes a face like he’s just swallowed his own tongue.

“S-steve,” Bucky clears his throat. “This is Avi and Helen, they’re friends of the family, and own this restaurant.

Steve quietly tables the conversation he and Bucky need to have, and smile at the couple. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

“He is a good one!” Avi pronounces in heavily accented English.

“But you must bring him more, we will feed the boy,” Helen says, making Steve feel very awkward. He hates that—it’s not his fault he’s his size, he doesn’t need strangers pointing it out. “Two of your normal order?”

“Of course,” Bucky says.

The couple dashes away, talking quickly in their native tongue, while Steve carefully unravels himself from Bucky’s side, giving them a few inches of space.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Steve asks, eyebrow raised. He’s not necessarily upset, it clearly just slipped out if Bucky’s red face is anything to go by, but he’s also not sure how to have this conversation, given that he’s never had to have it before.

“I’ll be honest, I’m utterly infatuated with you.”

Steve’s face burns. Infatuated?

“You’re so affectionate,” Bucky smiles with one side of his mouth. “Determined, strong… and I really would like for this to go somewhere. I was going to ask you at some point soon if you wanted to make this official. I don’t want to force your hand though.”

Steve bites his lip and stares down at the white tablecloth. It’s a bit unnerving- the idea of a relationship- he has to admit. He’s spent the last three or so years bouncing between guys, chasing pleasure wherever he could find it. Playing third for the occasional couple, bottoming for guys in bar bathrooms. He’s… popular.

On the other hand, it’s been weeks since he’s even thought about anyone else. Texts from hookups that he usually responds to are being left on read, his favorite cruising spot has been left empty, hell, even when he goes to the gym he’s been completely innocent, no long eye contact with men across the sauna. He’s been getting everything, and then some, from Bucky. Bucky feels like a friend. When he’s not there, Steve can’t stop thinking about him. And the sex is not like anyone else, because it feels like there’s something _else_ there, something that makes each moment a little sweeter.

“I’ve never been in a serious relationship before,” Steve admits, looking back to Bucky. Bucky nods. His face is impassive, but his fingers play with the edge of the seat cushion.

“But… I think that infatuation goes both ways. You’re so romantic, and warm, and…” Steve shakes his head, at a rare loss for words. “I always said that when I date someone, I have to know it’s going to go somewhere. And with you… I think it can. So yes,” Steve answers the unasked question. “Let’s be boyfriends. Exclusively,” he adds, just to be clear.

Bucky’s smile makes the room brighter, and Steve feels his heart skip a beat. Then and there, he knows he’s made the right choice.

“Alright boyfriend,” Steve says, sliding back into Bucky’s side. “What’s for lunch?”

Bucky offers for them to go back to his place after, and Steve accepts. He’s delightfully full from a three course meal, which apparently was somehow already paid for. They split an appetizer of something called blini, like a savory crepe that they dip in sour cream. The meal is a hefty beef stroganoff, and dessert is a light bowl of ice cream that Bucky eats the most of. After such a heavy meal, all Steve wants to do is fall asleep, which he nearly does on the car ride back.

Steve’s awake enough to notice the quality of the area getting nicer around them. They’d crossed over into Brooklyn Heights, one of the nicest areas in the city.

They pull up at the front of a large apartment building which was only minutes from the water. Bucky leads him out of the car with a sure hand on his shoulder, steering him towards the lobby. An actual doorman opens the door with a tip of the hat, and they enter a classy looking lobby, with minimalist art and a bright fancy chandelier.

They step into an elevator and Bucky swipes a key before pushing the button. Steve tries hard not to feel overwhelmed. He knows Bucky has money, but it was never too prevalent. Steve could just pretend that the car was a rideshare, that Bucky’s nice suits weren’t high end labels. But, as the elevator goes higher and higher and _higher_ , his wealth becomes quite obvious.

When the elevator door opens, they are staring into a foyer. Bucky walks in and drops his keys and wallet into a bowl on the table in the hallway running perpendicular, and Steve’s eyes go wide.

“You have a private elevator?” Steve blurts out. “This whole thing—we’re in your apartment?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “you can leave your shoes here if you like.”

Steve shuts his gaping mouth, and puts his bag and shoes down next to the table. Bucky walks down the hallway to the left, and Steve follows, looking at the place with mild awe. There’s a closed door on his right, and further down is an open door leading to a bathroom. The hallway turns right, and when Steve rounds the corner can’t suppress the gasp.

The room has floor to ceiling windows on two walls, displaying the Brooklyn bridge and the sparkling water of the river. The skyline of Manhattan is lit up as well, the Jersey skyline behind it. In the room, there are a few black couches and chairs in front of the TV on the rightmost wall, while on the left is a small glass dining table. Bucky has walked into the kitchen, which was behind the table. There’s a kitchen island with a massive deep sink, light wood cabinets and steel appliances along the wall.

CEO’s son, huh.

“Do you want something to drink? I have water, tea, anything really,” Bucky says, stifling a yawn.

“I’ll take a cup of tea, if you don’t mind?” Steve asks, still a little floored at the luxury he’s in. Already this place is twice the size of Steve’s apartment, which houses three and a half people, and he hasn’t even seen the other half of it.

Steve walks around the kitchen island to Bucky’s side, where he’s turning on the fire under a tea kettle on the stove. He’s scratching the back of his neck, his massive bicep, leaning his hips against the countertop.

“Hey,” Steve says.

Bucky smiles at him. “Hey. Sorry. Something about beef stroganoff really makes you want to take a three hour nap.”

“Plus all the sun,” Steve agrees. “I noticed you had a couple of bruises on your side, are you alright?”

“Mmm? Oh yeah,” Bucky says. “I’m a fighter. Have been for years. Get beat up a lot.”

“Really, like competitive?”

“I used to compete, but now it’s mostly just a discipline thing,” Bucky smiles. “I’m pretty good, so usually it’s not an issue, but I like sparring with people that are better than me. Gets me beat up a lot.”

“Beat _you_ up? Your body is literally a brick wall,” Steve snorts.

“Fighting isn’t all strength, there’s also a skill aspect,” Bucky says as he pours some tea. “I spend most of my days trying to get faster.”

“Yeah, why choose between being an unstoppable force and an immovable object when you can be both,” Steve says dryly. He takes his tea and inhales the scent of lavender. Bucky looks the kinda guy that could get into a fight, unlike Steve, who still did it anyway.

They end up on the couch together, mugs of tea on the coffee table, sipping it and watching TV. Bucky falls asleep almost immediately, which Steve finds sweet and a little funny. He takes the blanket on the back of Bucky’s couch and drapes it over his body. Not only is he doing more and more work, preparing for his eventual takeover, but he also keeps up with a fighting regime. With the way he’s built, it’s likely he never skips a day. Steve doesn’t blame him for needing some rest.

Steve takes his tea and wanders around the room. There’s not much in regards to personal effects, not even pictures of Bucky with family. There’s some interesting sculptures on the shelves on the wall that Steve notes. He then stares out into the water. It’s raining again, the water pattering against the windows. The dark clouds circle Manhattan, which has been lit up prematurely in the dark light.

Eventually Steve’s curiosity wins out, and he heads down the hallway again, exploring some more. He peeks in the bathroom on the right, taking in the marbled walls and countertop, then opens the door to the left, expecting Bucky’s bedroom. Instead he walks past a bathroom on his right and into Bucky’s office, glass desk set up against the windows that look out on Brooklyn and the river. There’s a line of dark shelves against one wall, alongside are books, more sculptures, and the first picture of Bucky he’s seen today. He’s younger, maybe in his teens, between what looks to be his parents arms, none of them smiling.

The desk itself is strewn with papers, two monitors displaying a simple screen saver.

Steve blinks at the large gun safe, locked up against the wall. It’s not like he’s one to judge, he keeps a handgun in his desk at work, and they have a revolver in a small safe in their front closet.

Steve heads out the office and into the small bathroom that looks hardly used, all sleek and marble like the last one. Through the bathroom is another room, which could feasibly be Bucky’s bedroom, except the room has clearly not been slept in in a while. He walks back out into the hallway and continues down. On the right is a front hall, and another door that leads outside to a hallway. There are heavy jackets hung up here, a washer and dryer, and shoes, lined up neatly on the ground. Steve shakes his head, heading back out to the final door in the hallway, which leads, finally, to Bucky’s bedroom.

There’s a huge bed on the back wall, a chair in the corner, a couple of bookshelves and a television. It’s more cozy in here than anywhere else. The walls are gray, and the bed is covered in red blankets. There’s a navy carpet on the floor surrounding the massive king size bed. There’s a nightstand on each side, with a lamp and. Well. That’s a gun.

Indeed, on the nightstand, is a silver and gold handgun, glinting in the dark. It’s unloaded, and Steve only knows this because the clip is right next to it, the spare bullet there as well.

Steve walks forward and picks it up, turning it over in his hand. It’s engraved with long, curved lines across the barrel, hints of gold inlaid inside. What’s most prominent though, is the large gold star inset into the handle, sparkling in the low light.

“It’s a family heirloom,” Bucky says.

Steve jumps and turns around, putting a hand over his chest to calm the spike in his heart. He’s leaning against the wall at the entrance to his bedroom, looking at Steve holding his gun with an unreadable expression. There’s no light in the room, except the gray feeding in from the rain-soaked windows.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says. Steve’s never considered himself a gun nut, seeing the weapon as a form of self-defense more than anything, but the engraving is truly gorgeous. Steve’s never seen anything like it.

“It was hand engraved by a cousin.” Bucky says. “You see the star at the base? That is the symbol of my family.”

Steve observes the star further, seeing the swirls in design from where the tool worked it in.

Bucky asserts himself further, walking in the room with his hands in his pockets. “The star used to be red. Dates back to the Soviet Union where we used to be subjugated. We immigrated here looking for a better life. Kept the star from our past, made it our own, silver and gold.”

Bucky reaches Steve, and takes the gun from his hand. He crowds Steve against the nightstand, looking down on him. Steve swallows, suddenly nervous. Bucky’s expression is dark, looking down on Steve with enough ice to make him shiver. His arms circle Steve’s body loosely, and Steve hears the sound of the gun being placed gently on the table behind him.

Steve can’t look away from his eyes, bright as they are. He’s at a loss for words, Bucky’s searching gaze seeming to bore directly into Steve’s soul.

“Enjoy your self-guided tour?” Bucky quirks his lip, but it doesn’t look anything near like a smile.

“Sorry,” Steve says, his throat dry. He’s never felt so small with Bucky before, never felt him so large. “I didn’t mean to be nosy, I just wanted to look around a bit.”

“Mhm,” Bucky says. Steve feels his ass bump the nightstand. Bucky’s whole body is shrouding Steve, overwhelming him. He’s almost three times Steve’s size and he’s making Steve feel it.

Bucky’s hips meet his, and Bucky blinks, his expression cracking a little. Steve feels his face burn, because Bucky’s finally noticed how hard Steve is in his shorts.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow, but Steve wraps his hands around Bucky’s hips to grope his ass, then presses him firmly against his thigh. “Let me make it up to you?” Steve breathes, then without waiting for a response, drops to his knees.

Steve kisses Bucky’s cock through his shorts, and looks up at him beneath his lashes. Bucky’s hands are gripping the nightstand, and his penetrating gaze is clouding over with lust. Steve opens his mouth and licks his cock through fabric, keeping his eyes wide open.

Bucky stares at him. Steve has a tough time deciphering his expression, wondering if he really was angry for Steve looking around his place.

“ _Ty menya pogubish_ ,” Bucky mutters. Steve doesn’t know what he says, but deduces that he must be giving in, because his fingers dig into the waistband of his shorts and starts to work them down.

Steve takes no time in sucking Bucky into his mouth once it’s freed. He’s soft enough that Steve can talk the whole thing with little problem, his tongue going to play with the balls underneath. He doesn’t have a strong scent, but tastes like salt, and Steve closes his eyes as he loses himself in the rhythm, in the mouthfeel of something so heavy on his tongue.

Bucky’s breath hitches and moans as Steve gets him hard. When he starts to leak in his mouth, Steve grows bolder, moving faster, keeping his hands on Bucky’s ass. Bucky’s hips jerk slightly. He’s biting into his lower lip, fingers digging into the nightstand behind them. Holding himself back, Steve suddenly realizes.

Steve pulls off, and looks at Bucky with his most innocent expression he can muster.

“Fuck my throat?”

“God,” Bucky grits out through his teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Start slow,” Steve offers, then he dives back down to Bucky’s now hard cock, getting back to work.

Bucky’s hips jerk again, but he’s still holding back. Steve encourages him by pushing his cock down his throat, cutting off his airflow. His throat spasms, and Bucky lets out a garbled noise. Steve pulls back for a breath, then dives in again, pushing Bucky down a half inch further.

“Baby…”

Steve grabs Bucky’s ass with his hand and pulls him in. Slowly, Bucky gets with the program, and starts to slide his cock gently forward, then out of Steve’s mouth. Steve’s eyes flutter closed, and he holds himself still and open. Gradually, oh so gradually, Bucky’s pace picks up. One had comes to bury itself in Steve’s hair, holding him in place as he fucks his mouth, the other goes to the wall behind the nightstand. Steve moans as Bucky leans into him, and Bucky swears as the vibration echoes up his cock.

Steve remains carefully still, all of his mind focused on keeping calm as Bucky’s cock cuts off his airway over and over. It’s a delightful side effect of yoga, this level of control over his shallow breathing and his broken body, being able to focus on the idea of getting Bucky off.

Bucky never forces himself all the way in, nor does he pull all the way out. His hand tightens in Steve’s hair to the point of pain, and the tears forming in Steve’s eyes start to roll down his face. Bucky swears, eyes screwed shut, and pulls out

Steve’s eyes don’t have a chance to open before he feels wetness on his cheeks, over his forehead and nose, covering his lips and chin.

“Don’t open your eyes,” Bucky says between heavy breaths. Steve stays still dutifully, and feels Bucky’s thumb swipe over his left eyelid very gently, wiping off wetness from where it must have landed on Steve’s eye by mistake.

“Okay,” Bucky says, and Steve opens his eyes to see Bucky, kneeling down in front of him. He reaches forward to run a finger up and down Steve’s throat. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, hoarsely.

Bucky’s finger traces up his neck to swipe his chin. “You look so good covered in my cum,” Bucky breathes, swiping through the mess on the left side of Steve’s face, and Steve shakes all over. He sucks Bucky’s thumb into his mouth and tastes him, earthy and salty and bitter in his mouth.

Bucky does it again, cleaning the liquid from his forehead this time. His eyes never leaving Steve’s as Steve sucks more of Bucky’s cum from his fingers.

Bucky leans in and licks Steve’s chin, his tongue flat and rough on Steve’s skin. He follows up with an open kiss on both of Steve’s cheeks, sloppy and wet.

Steve unclasps his hands from behind his back, fallen completely asleep from the position. He catches Bucky’s lips with his own and sucks Bucky’s tongue, tasting the cum Bucky licked from his skin.

They stay there, sharing sloppy kisses for a while, before Steve says: “I’m going to fuck you.”

Bucky exhales shakily and slams his lips into Steve’s. Steve kisses back just as hard, and together, they rise to standing.

Steve pushes Bucky, and he falls on the bed, kicking off his shorts as he does. Steve takes Bucky’s body in, dull gray from the dim light of the rainstorm, as he makes work of his own clothes. He crawls onto the bed, on top of Bucky, straddling his thighs.

Lightning flashes outside the window, and for one brief moment Bucky’s skin flashes white, burning into the back of Steve’s eyes. Steve leans down to kiss him as the thunder rumbles its response, connecting their bodies and moaning as his hard cock slides up against Bucky’s skin.

Steve starts kissing down his neck with his eyes shut, just going by the feel of the other man’s jaw; hot, wet bites that dig into the other man’s skin. When he reaches Bucky’s pulse point, Bucky lets out a noise Steve’s never heard before, higher pitched and more airy than his usual moans. Steve begins to work his skin, sucking deeply. Bucky’s hips jerk upwards, Steve’s name on his lips.

Steve doesn’t want him moving quite so much, and he rests his hands on Bucky’s hips, pushing them back against the bed. He continues to work that sweet spot for a moment more.

Steve finally releases, leaving Bucky gasping, then bites into Bucky’s shoulder for a moment, just to taste the skin. Steve then kisses down to Bucky’s nipple, licks once, then sucks sharply, pulling another little gasp from Bucky. He experiments, scraping his teeth and teasing with his tongue, to see what gets the best reaction.

He relents, then works the other one the same way. Bucky’s hand sneaks into Steve’s hair, resting against the scalp as he sighs into it.

“Steve…” Bucky breathes, and Steve meets Bucky’s eye then winks, then goes even further down, kissing the line of those delicious abs. Steve lets himself get sidetracked three times: once to suck another hickey into Bucky’s side, the one without the bruise, once to add yet another one at the top of Bucky’s hip bone, and once, finally, at Bucky’s half-hard dick, resting on his thigh, where he digs his tongue in the still-wet head and sucks.

Bucky whines, hips jerking at the movement. Steve releases Bucky’s cock with a pop and grins, watching it slap down against his abdomen.

Steve slides down again—thank God for king sized beds—and spreads Bucky’s legs, enjoying how easily Bucky lets him in. He bites one of his thick thighs, then decides to leave a hickey there too. By the time he’s done, Bucky’s squirming against the duvet, cock hardened again.

Steve feels a rush at the power of being able to bring him to this state, such a strong, solid man, revealed so perfectly for Steve, covered in his marks, losing himself to pleasure.

“Flip over,” Steve says. His voice has darkened with the lust. Bucky rolls to his stomach, then lifts to his hands and knees at Steve’s request. His cock hangs down between his legs, and Steve can’t help but pull at it a few times, before reaching over to Bucky’s nightstand and digging around for the lube he knows he has.

When he comes back, fingers slick, Bucky’s looking over his shoulder at him. Steve gives him a wink, then teases the wet finger over his ass and to his hole, where he applies just enough pressure to break the rim. He pushes; Bucky opens, and he whines as Steve works past one knuckle, then the other.

Feeling a little bold, a little high on control, Steve says, “Fuck yourself on it, Bucky.”

Bucky starts to move his hips, Steve’s finger sliding out, then in. Steve moans quietly, watching as his finger disappears into the other man.

Steve stills his Bucky’s hips, then adds another finger, carefully fucking Bucky open, as Bucky bites his lips and keeps rocking back. When Steve’s fingers are fully seated, he crooks them towards the bed.

“Ah—ah, _fuck_ , sugar,” Bucky moans as Steve finds his prostate. Steve digs into it and lets Bucky ride his knuckles for a while. Bucky’s moaning louder now, legs falling wider against the bed as he works himself up.

“One more, Buck,” Steve murmurs, and he slides in finger number three. At this point, Bucky’s losing himself in the rhythm, doing most of the work for Steve, and Steve gets to sit back and watch, enraptured, as the strong, stoic, brick house of a man he’s agreed to date slowly starts to fall apart.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” Steve breathes, and he pulls his fingers out and starts to get his cock ready.

“Yeah?” Bucky says. He turns at the neck, grinning wildly at Steve, face pulled apart in bliss.

“You’re amazing like this,” Steve says.

Bucky drops to his elbows and lets his head rest on them, some of his hair falling over his face. “Just wait until you get inside, doll.”

Steve could cry at the arch Bucky’s back makes, the curve leading to his ass such a gorgeous shape that Steve almost wants to stop and sketch it. Almost.

“I can take a hint,” Steve says as he kneels behind Bucky. He has Bucky shift lower a bit so he lines up better, then, looking down Bucky’s spine and to his neck, he starts to push in.

At the first press, Bucky’s head lifts from his hands to the ceiling, his long dark hair falling to his back. Steve gasps as Bucky’s ass wraps his cock in tight velvet heat, and he chases it, fingers clenched tightly around Bucky’s hips, shifting under his fingertips.

“Buck. Buck, you feel so good…” Steve breathes. He gives himself a few inches to work with, just enough to make sure Bucky has time to adjust. He’s not the size of Bucky, but a dick up the ass is no mean feat.

Bucky though, is taking it like he’s been taking dick for his whole life. His head is tossed to the side now, as he arches back into Steve, and he meets Steve’s thrusts almost eagerly, until Steve’s finally fully seated.

He’s a vice, hot and wet and perfect all at once. Bucky is moaning, his voice pitched a touch higher, and he squeezes around Steve’s cock rhythmically, massaging Steve’s cock from the head to the root.

“Fucking—” Steve bites off, and he starts to move his hips, rolling his cock into the tight heat.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that baby,” Bucky responds, then he gasping with every movement.

“Faster,” Bucky moans, and Steve quickens his pace immediately. Bucky’s ass bounces against Steve’s pelvis, assisted by Steve’s hands pulling him closer with each movement. Steve leans over Bucky’s back, breathe coming in pants, fingertips digging deeper into Bucky’s skin.

Steve fucks faster. Lightning cracks across the sky again, lighting up the room, lighting up Bucky’s shiny back, where thick, well used muscles flex as they work themselves on Steve’s cock.

“God, Bucky, you’re gorgeous,” Steve moans, chasing that heat. His thighs are starting to burn, but Steve keeps going, pleasure building and building every time his hips slap into Bucky’s skin.

“Steve, baby, you feel… so good,” Bucky chokes out.

Steve feels pleasure shoot down his spine, feels it build in his core, his hips moving almost of their own accord. “Bucky, baby, I’m gonna cum,” he warns.

“Come on sweetheart, let me hear you, fill me up,” Bucky gasps.

“God, Bucky, I—” Steve cuts short as something inside him gives way, and his orgasm rushes him, sparks flying over his skin, rolling over his entire body. He slams his hips in, feeling himself shudder, sensation so visceral he feels like he’s about to succumb to it.

It ebbs, and he’s left gasping over Bucky’s back, hips twitching. He lifts himself up and pulls out, watching as his cock begins to soften, Bucky’s hole closing behind it, a little bit of white wetness squeezing out—

They didn’t use a condom.

“Steve, can you—your fingers...?” Bucky pants, looking back at him questioningly. Steve swallows, heart still pounding, but snaps to it. Bucky has a hand between his legs, and he strokes as Steve digs his fingers into Bucky’s channel, hot and loose and very wet, finding Bucky’s prostate and starting to massage it.

Bucky’s long, pitchy moans return, hips moving as he pushes his cock into his own hand and pushes back on Steve’s fingers. Steve rolls his knuckles inside of him, and Bucky cries out, hand working beneath him.

Steve leans over and bites Bucky’s ass, tasting salt on his skin. He’s afraid he’s dug his teeth in too hard, but Bucky cries out as he does it, hand moving faster. So Steve bites him again, a little higher this time. Seconds later Steve can hear Bucky come, hear the rapid increase of his breath until it cuts off suddenly, feel the spasm in his hips as he rides the air, feel the tightness of his ass around Steve’s thin fingers.

“Oh, Steve…” Bucky says, collapsing forwards on the mattress.

Steve pulls his wet fingers out of Bucky’s body and spends a moment taking in the mess he’s made of Bucky, still tingling from his own orgasm.

Steve sighs, anxiety ruining his afterglow. “We forgot a condom,” he says.

“Oh,” Bucky says, groggy, then the words seem to hit him, and he rolls over to his back. “Oh _shit_. Well, I’m clean if that helps. Tested two months ago.”

“I am too, got results back a day ago,” Steve says.

Bucky looks at Steve, an awkward expression on his face. “HIV takes a month to show up on STD tests,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve flushes red at the implication of Bucky’s words. Yet, he knows he has no right to be angry. “I’m on PReP,” he says shortly. “Haven’t missed a day.”

Bucky nods, then works his way to being seated, in front of Steve. “I’m not, but I’ve been going through a dry spell. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Steve spends a moment fighting with himself, then sighs as he loses. Wins?

“It’s on me,” Steve admits. “I should have grabbed one from the nightstand, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s on me too, I should have paid more attention.” Bucky wraps him in a hug. “But it sounds like we’re gonna be okay.”

Steve tucks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder, not entirely convinced. He’s the one that would have given Bucky something due to his promiscuity. “I wasn’t the safest before, but I promised to make an effort. And… I don’t plan on being with anyone else anytime soon,” Steve says.

Bucky pulls back to rest his forehead against Steve’s, and he has this silly little smile on his face. “I believe that, given how many hickeys you gave me.”

“I’m growing possessive,” Steve returns his smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Never,” Bucky says, and he kisses Steve’s nose. Steve wrinkles it in response.

“Now,” Bucky rolls off the bed, standing. “The inside of me is getting itchy, so I have to do something unmentionable in the bathroom.”

Steve snorts. “And yet you mentioned it anyway. Can I take a shower, uh, after?”

“I’ll use the bathroom in the hall, go ahead and use my shower.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll join you in a minute.”

Bucky’s bathroom is single handedly Steve’s favorite part of the apartment. It’s elegant, like the rest of the place: the shower is a lineless glass cube that takes up the back left corner, and there’s an actual bathtub, freestanding, across from it. But while the walls and counters are the same impersonal granite of the rest of the place, the bathroom is so very lived in, littered with all things Bucky. The countertop is covered in bars of soap, each a different color, consistency, and scent, like Bucky can’t figure out which one he likes the most. On the shelves next to the sink lay various lotions, also a variety of flavors. And Steve can’t stop himself from smiling when he sees that the bottom of the bathtub is covered in golden glitter, probably left over from one of the bath bombs sitting in the basket next to it. Steve’s not sure why the sight of it all makes him feel so warm inside. Maybe it’s because he gets to see this side of Bucky, a side that few else do. The part of him that likes to exfoliate, and use bath bombs, and has seven different types of lotion to choose from. Yes Bucky is a strong, masculine man with thighs that could decimate a watermelon, but he’s also comfortable enough with himself to enjoy a little pampering. It’s all so very… human.

In the shower there’s at least four different types of shampoo and conditioner, and an array of soaps and sugar scrubs sitting on the inlet shelf. Steve picks up one of the soaps and smells vanilla and cinnamon.

Steve hums a tune as he washes up, using the honey-lavender shampoo and conditioner in his hair, and the vanilla cinnamon bar on his body. After his shower (where the water got hot, and _stayed_ hot), he dries off and emerges into Bucky’s bedroom nude.

Bucky’s not there, so Steve walks back into the living area, and sees Bucky in boxers, leaning over the kitchen island, speaking in rapid, fluid Russian into his phone, an angry furrow to his brow. Rain still patters outside.

Steve comes up behind Bucky and wraps him in a back-to-front hug. Bucky turns in his arms and stops speaking, leaning down to kiss Steve’s forehead. He pauses for a moment, then inhales, eyes falling shut, before he pulls back and looks down at Steve’s appreciatively.

Steve spends some time cataloguing Bucky’s chest. He’s left him with a couple of hickeys, currently forming on his side and hip.

He also still has the deep purple of a prominent bruise, healing on his other side, fading into a yellowish green on the edges. Steve curiously brushes his fingers over it, but Bucky shoos him away from it with a hand, still distracted by his phone call.

On the other side, there is a thin scar near his hip bone. Steve traces over that one with his finger as well, but Bucky doesn’t push him away this time.

Bucky finally hangs up with a short statement, terse statement, and drops his phone on the counter behind him.

“Hey. You smell like my soap,” Bucky says with an exhale, an indulgent smile on his lips.

“Well I had to use something, and the vanilla cinnamon looked really good,” Steve comments.

“It’s my favorite right now. Comes with a matching lotion.”

Steve nods. “What happened here?” He asks, rubbing his thumb against the scar. “Appendix surgery?”

“Oh that? No, I was stabbed.”

“ _What?”_

“Just a little bit.”

“Just a little—what happened?” Steve looks up at him, eyes wide.

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly. “A man I used to consider a good friend became involved in the wrong crowd,” he says. “I usually can leave well enough alone, but he was my friend, so I tried to confront him, and, well, I was stabbed.”

“He stabbed you,” Steve says, disbelieving. That has to be a _hell_ of a wrong crowd.

“Yeah, but I’m a fighter,” Bucky says. “He caught me by surprise, but at the end of the day, I was stronger. Disarmed him, left him for the police.”

“But you’re okay now?”

“Completely, doll. I’m as tough as I look,” Bucky grins crookedly. “Sorry about the phone call. Work. Everyone’s a dumbass. You want some pants? Not that I mind, but you might get a little chilly.”

Steve dons a set of Bucky’s comfiest sweats, rolling them up several times and still tripping over them. They end up lounging on the couch with fresh cups of tea. Steve rests his head in Bucky’s lap and falls into a doze as Bucky watches TV. It feels horrendously domestic, but Steve doesn’t complain, especially when Bucky starts combing his fingers through his hair.

Steve wakes a little while later, alone, with a blanket tossed over his body, as the news plays in the background. He frowns as he watches for a moment – looks like Tony Stark failed his psych eval, preventing him from being able to make decisions in his own company. Stark had made Potts the CEO, but the board had appointed Stane, and Potts’ lawyers are calling foul play, as the psychiatrist assigned to the case was found to have ties to Stane himself, and now Stark Industries was suing its own board and… it looks like a complete mess. He gets up and stretches, cracking his neck, and takes a look at the clock in the kitchen. The afternoon has trickled into evening, and the rain has let up enough for the sunset to peek through the clouds.

“Hey, do you want dinner?” Bucky asks. He looks exhausted, tapping away furiously on his laptop at the dining table.

“Sounds good, we can order?” Steve suggests.

“Well actually, I usually cook,” Bucky says, slamming his laptop shut and heading to the kitchen.

“You can cook? Lord take me now,” Steve quips, and Bucky smiles.

Bucky loosens up a bit more as they cook. Steve makes rice as Bucky sears some chicken on the stove. Steve cracks a joke when Bucky starts tossing a salad, and Bucky makes a terrible comment about chicken breasts, and it’s so, so easy.

And Steve can’t believe he’s managed to spend a whole day here. Not once worrying about the shop with Sam holding things down, not even caring to answer his phone.

During dinner, Steve asks what’s going on with work, which ends up with Bucky telling him more about his company, how they employ immigrants because they’re familiar with trade from the various countries they import from. It’s not a large company, but it’s not a small one, either. Bucky, currently, oversees quality control across the board, and assists with high level customer interaction, and new contracts.

“God,” Steve says. “And you’re smart too?”

Bucky chuckles, swiping up the rest of the rice with his fork. “I try. I’m not the one that owns and manages his own company though, like you.”

“Yeah… but a coffee shop is a lot different than a multinational company,” Steve says incredulously.

“But you’re the one that makes the decisions at the end of the day,” Bucky says. “I don’t have to do that. Yet.”

“You’re gonna be good at it Buck, I’m sure of that,” Steve says firmly.

After dinner, Steve begrudgingly admits it’s time for him to go. He has an art piece he wants to work on, plus he’d like to see Natasha before she leaves for work.

“Opening tomorrow?” Bucky asks as Steve puts on his shoes. “You know… I’m probably closer to Manhattan than you are.”

Steve smiles as Bucky’s thinly veiled comment. “I don’t really have enough stuff to stay here,” he says, thinking of the mountain of pills he has to take in the morning. If he’s off them so much as an hour, the delicate homeostasis his body’s reached would tip in some terrifying direction, and his various ailments would rear their ugly head and put Steve out of sorts for at least a week.

They stand in the elevator room, waiting for it to arrive. Steve’s bag is in his hand, Bucky’s sweats and shirt rolled up to fit on his body.

“Are you _sure_ you have to go?” Bucky’s almost pouting at this point, and Steve laughs.

“Next time, when I’m more prepared, we can have a sleepover” he says.

“We said that _last_ time.”

“Next time. I promise.” He kisses the pout off Bucky’s face as the elevator arrives.

“My car’s waiting for you, it’ll take you wherever you need to go,” Bucky says, stepping in with him.

“You’re not far,” Steve protests. “I was just going to walk to the subway.”

“I know,” Bucky says as the elevator arrives downstairs.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to send your car for me every time I need to go somewhere,” Steve continues.

“I know,” Bucky says, walking him to the front door.

“Bucky, I don’t want to be a hindrance. That’s too much.”

“I don’t make a habit of doing things I don’t want to do,” Bucky says as the doorman leads them outside into the cloudy night. The driver is standing by the back, car door open.

Steve sighs, and puts his bag inside, before turning around for one last kiss.

“Goodnight, Steve,” Bucky says, kissing him once more.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” Steve says, and he steps into the waiting car.

**Thor**

_You doing anything tonight?_

_I’m pretty tired today actually, so I’m going to stay in_

_Maybe I can join you, help you relax ;)_

_As fun as that sounds…_

_I actually have a boyfriend now?_

_It’s pretty new_

_Ay Steve, congratulations! I wish you both well_

_Thanks :)_

_And we can definitely still hang out sometime_

_Of course! We are friends first =D_

**Brock**

_Stop ignoring me_

_I kno ur up_

_Let me raw that ass_

_I have a boyfriend now_

_So?_

_So me and him are exclusive_

_You? Exclusive? Yeah rite_

_Ur a slut_

_Fuck off_

_Hey_

_C’mon I didn’t mean anything by that_

_U know u like that_

_Fucking fag, answer me_

“Brock Rumlow is a tool,” Steve says, tossing his phone down on the coffee table

“Yeah, well, water is wet,” Clint says.

“What’s he up to now?” Sam asks.

“Well,” Steve takes a deep breath. “Bucky and decided we were going to be exclusive.”

His announcement is met with silence. Steve looks up from his phone to see Clint and Sam share a look with each other from across the living room.

“What, you don’t think I can do it, either?” Steve snaps. “Fuck both of you guys okay, I’ve never felt this—I don’t know what it is about him that you don’t like. Natasha knew him and vouched for him, but every time I so much as bring him up you look like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life! Now I get that I haven’t had a steady boyfriend in, well, ever, but I really think this could go somewhere, and I could use some support from my friends.”

“Steve, of course we support you, it’s just that… something about him rubs me the wrong way, that’s all,” Clint says.

“I don’t get why you can’t see what I see,” Steve says.

“Personally, I don’t think either of us want to see what you see in regards to him,” Clint mutters.

“You’re right.” Sam says, and Clint gives him an incredulous look. “We haven’t been being fair to him or you,” Sam says. “We’ll try harder.”

“We will?” Clint asks.

“We _will,_ " Sam says decidedly.

Steve has an idea. “Let’s have dinner then. All of us, together. Bucky and I can cook. Then we can all get to know each other.”

“Okay,” Sam says, even as Clint shakes his head. “But Steve, you have to know, we don’t think you can’t make your own decisions.”

“Then trust me,” Steve says, and he sighs. “I really want you guys to get along, okay?”

“Okay, Steve,” Sam says. “We’ll do our best.”

Clint doesn’t say anything, just stalks out of the room and into Natasha’s, shutting the door behind him.

Steve glares at his retreating back. Sooner or later, he’s going to have to have a talk about Clint’s behavior.


	7. The Eye of The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last stab at crack in the beginning of this chapter! Mr. Barnes is a pushy Dad with no boundaries
> 
> After that (And a lot of you have guessed it), Clint finally gets his day!
> 
> And poor Sam, all these secrets aren't good for him.
> 
> And is Steve finally getting a clue???

# Chapter 7: The Eye of the Devil

Steve hums along to the chill pop music in the background as he wipes down another table. It’s a gentle afternoon bleeding into evening, and there’s only a few customers at the shop, tapping away on computers or talking on their phone over a coffee.

Another customer enters, and he greets her with a smile. She orders a hot chocolate and a sandwich, which he prepares for her and serves to her table. It’s just him, Pietro, and Wanda, but traffic was slow today, so he let them relax a little in the back.

After he serves the new customer, he goes back to check on his employees. It's peaceful back in the staff room. Pietro's typing on a computer with intensity, and Wanda's writing in a test prep book. They’ve always been a very overachieving pair, doing so much schoolwork over the summer to make sure they’re ready for their next year at college. Steve lets them be, and heads back to man the shop.

But when Steve comes out the back, the shop is completely empty. He slows as he walks to the front counter. He had just served a customer a small sandwich, but she was nowhere to be found, in fact, her sandwich is still on the table, untouched. Immediately, Steve is on guard, but he’s not sure what for.

“Hello.”

Steve jumps, heart pounding wildly in his chest. At the front of the shop, standing tall in front of the counter, is a wiry, square-jawed man in a black trench coat, black hat perched on his head. He carefully removes it, revealing closely cropped silver hair, and a set of piercing blue-gray eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, approaching the counter, feeling something…off about his sudden appearance. “I didn’t see you there. Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

His eyes roam Steve’s face like he’s cataloging it. Up this close he’s at least a foot taller than Steve, and owns every inch of his height. “Then, can I help you sir?”

“Do you know who I am?” His accent is more prevalent now, hints of Slovak on his vowels.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t,” Steve says. “But if you’re not going to order anything, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Steve will be damned if he let the man stay if he makes him this uncomfortable.

The mystery man smiles at this, eyes crinkling in amusement. The expression doesn’t look like it belongs on his face.

“My name is George Barnes,” he says.

Oh. _Shit._

“You’re Bucky’s dad,” Steve breathes.

“That is correct.”

Bucky’s dad. He just tried to kick out his boyfriend’s dad.

“Mr. Barnes!” Steve says, trying to warm up to him. This is the last thing Steve is prepared for. Does he know about them? He must, if he’s here. Or maybe he’s following up about his wife as well…?

“I wasn’t expecting this. Uh, do you want to sit down?” Steve asks quickly.

“I will not be here long,” he says. Every time he speaks it sounds like he’s issued a command, and Steve fights not to fidget under his judgment.

Mr. Barnes places his hat on the counter. “My son is quite taken with you.”

Steve blushes red, but also feels warmth bloom in his chest. Bucky talks about him to his parents? It’s daunting and flattering, all at once.

“I was curious to meet you, as you seem to have met most of my closest family.”

Despite everything, Steve smiles. “How is Mrs. Barnes?”

A tiny piece of Mr. Barnes's face softens at the edge, and Steve relaxes. If he’s anything like Bucky, then he must absolutely love his family, and that manages to put Steve at ease.

Until he realizes he might be about to get the shovel talk of his life.

“She is well. She speaks of you fondly.”

“That’s great! Tell her I say hello.” Steve genuinely means that.

“James is my eldest child, and he is a gay man,” Mr. Barnes says bluntly.

Steve blinks. “Yes. It seems. To be that way.” Steve has no idea what he’s meant to say.

“It seems unlikely he will bear children.”

_…_ _What?_

“Um. Well technically two men… can’t…”

“I am aware of how the process works, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve clears his throat. Mrs. Barnes was unable to speak English, perhaps Mr. Barnes learned English as a second language as well, and something was getting lost in translation.

“Sir, is this… a gay thing?” Steve asks carefully.

“A… ‘gay thing?’” George Barnes asks. Those two words, together, don’t belong in his mouth.

“Are you having trouble with Bucky being gay?”

Without changing his expression, George Barnes grows angry. The room itself seems to darken, and he somehow feels even taller, looming over Steve with his strong sturdy expression. Steve feels himself start to sweat, like he’s done something very, very wrong.

“I love my gay son,” Mr. Barnes says icily. “I _celebrate_ his gay.”

Steve swallows, twice. “I, uh, celebrate… his… gay. As well.”

And just like that, the fury is gone, the room lightens, and all is well again, without Mr. Barnes having moved an inch.

“How in God’s name did you—”

“Steve Rogers, you are strong willed, logical, and loyal. All traits of a good lover.”

“…Thank you.”

“The only thing that worries me, Mr. Rogers, is that my children may not provide the family with a proper heir. Out of all of my children, James is the one most likely to be interested in bearing a child. My daughters do not express as much interest as he does. I worry about the future, you see.”

“Wait, has Bucky expressed _some_ interest?”

“Therefore I will request that when you and my son marry, you will give him a child.”

“I can’t—wait, _married_? What? We—”

“Adoption will suffice,” Mr. Barnes says.

“I don’t know?” Steve says, finally finding his voice. “I mean, I don’t know? I haven’t really thought about the future! Like Bucky, he’s a good guy. A perfect son,” Steve continues. “He’s been nothing but a gentlemen. And I can see where he gets it from,” he assures, trying to get some reaction out of the other man.

Mr. Barnes remains impassive. Steve can’t seem to shut up.

“I um. I can see us going places, if that’s what you’re asking. I like him a lot. A whole lot. And he’s my first long term relationship. Serious, probably. Completely! Completely serious. But I mean, I could see that, if we went the long route, and then got married, then maybe, way, _way_ down the line, assuming we were both in a good place for it and we didn’t want to travel, we could think about… looking around? And maybe _start_ to consider the idea of...of adopting—”

“Good.” Mr. Barnes says, and Steve feels like he’s signed a contract to purchase a house. “Then welcome to the family, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve’s at a complete loss for words.

George Barnes takes his hat off the counter and affixes it back on his head. “This coffee shop of yours will never close, unless you want it to.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asks, but Mr. Barnes ignores him, trench coat sweeping open as he turns around.

“When you are married, you must, at least, hyphenate. The Barnes name must hold strong,” he says as he heads to the door.

“I’m—we aren’t—yet—” Steve sputters.

“And _do not._ ” George Barnes turns his head, and the room grows dark again, his steel eyes sharp, his face impassive and yet irrevocably dangerous, filled with the coldest of ice. “Do not think to break my son’s heart.”

“I won’t,” Steve says. He meets his eyes, and despite his trepidation, his awkwardness, the weirdness about everything, he fights to keeps his gaze.

George Barnes smiles, and it makes him look more dangerous. “Goodnight, Mr. Rogers,” he says, and he steps out into the evening.

Steve is so shocked he’s completely rooted to the floor for ten full seconds, before he’s startled violently by the sound of the radio beginning to filter in over the speakers. He didn’t even realize it had stopped.

 _Had_ stopped, for the duration of Mr. Barnes visit. What the fuck is this?

Steve storms to the counter and whips out his phone.

Bucky picks up after three rings.

“ _Hey sweetheart, at the gym, what’s up?”_

“So I think I just met your father?!” Steve says with slightly more panic than he intended.

 _“Oh. Oh God no.”_ Bucky’s voice is pure, unmatched horror. In the background, Steve hears a _clang_ of metal.

Steve can’t help but snort. Apparently Bucky is completely aware of the effect his father has on people.

 _“Did he… ask you anything…?”_ Bucky says, tone filled with a healthy mix of dread and resignation, as if he already knows the answer.

“Well… he didn’t _ask_ me anything,” Steve says. “But he _did_ tell me to hyphenate our names when we get married, and that we should adopt a child.”

Bucky lets out an extensive string of swears, so harsh it causes Steve to wince and pull the phone from his ear. He stares at it a moment, then returns to the call when Bucky finishes.

“Bucky look. I’ve never had a relationship, but I’m pretty sure it’s a little early to be talking about this kind of stuff.”

 _“It is Steve. Don’t listen to anything he says, he’s just…”_ Bucky’s sigh sounds rough over the airwaves. _“I can talk more about it with you tonight, but my father has always been overprotective. A… planner. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on in his family, tries to take control of all the loose ends… Please just ignore everything he possibly said. Which… what did he say?”_ The last sentence is said with worry.

Steve sighs, then leans on the countertop and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not going to lie, the whole thing was strange, Buck. Like, not just him telling me to have your kid, which is borderline already, but, like, the entire shop was empty when he got here? The music stopped? And he kept saying stuff about how it’s never going to close…”

_“Just ignore him.”_

Steve lets out a hysterical laugh, happy the shop is still blissfully empty. “That’s a real big thing to ignore Bucky.”

_“Dad… he lives and breathes work. He doesn’t know how to operate outside of it. Everything to him is a transaction, everything in the world is out to bring him down. So he can sometimes forget what it’s like to interact with another human being. So… questions that would usually be handled with more… tact… end up becoming headliners.”_

“Bucky…”

_“Yeah, I know, I know. I’m sorry. This happens every fucking time any of us try to date someone. Please don’t be worried, and don’t think that you have to do anything he says. He’s intimidating, but he doesn’t know how not to be.”_

Steve ponders this a moment. It’s true that Mr. Barnes seemed to radiate a level of ‘Don’t fuck with me’ Steve hasn’t ever felt before. And he clearly was scoping out the man who’s dating his oldest son, especially if that last statement was anything to go by…

Steve lowers his voice, speaking with utmost seriousness into the phone. “I am not in the habit of doing things I don’t want to do.”

Bucky chokes into surprised laughter.

Steve snickers, then smiles. “I’m not going to lie, it’s weird to be told by my boyfriend’s Dad that I have to have his kids.”

Bucky’s laugh turns into a groan over the line. _“I’ll talk to him.”_

It hits Steve right then, that this is probably what it’s like to have overbearing and embarrassing parents that are involved in their kids’ relationship. The whole ‘asking awkward questions’ thing that he sees on TV. Sure, maybe this was an extreme form of it, even _he_ knows that, but, well. It’s not like he’s ever had parents to do this to a partner of his.

_“I’m sorry again, Steve. Please, please don’t listen to him.”_

“It’s okay Bucky.” Steve remembers how Mr. Barnes’ face went soft when he talked about his wife. He clearly loves his family, enough to reach an overprotective arm out to his son’s boyfriend. It also sounds like Bucky’s had to deal with this before. Maybe he’s even lost a partner to it. And if Mr. Barnes is just doing it out of a place of protectiveness, then maybe Steve can understand.

But still.

“It’s weird, but it’s okay,” Steve says. “I think.”

“ _I’ll make it up to you.”_

“Oh yeah? How are you going to do that?” Steve asks, leaning over the counter on his elbows.

_“For one, I’m pulling out all the stops for dinner with your roommates tomorrow. I reserved steaks from the local butcher, the best cut he has.”_

“Mmm…” Steve can’t remember the last time he’d had steak.

_“Then, when we’re alone, I’ll hand feed you the finest chocolates in your bed, milk and dark and hazelnut, just how you like it.”_

“Ooh, I like how that sounds,” Steve says, feeling warm and tingly at the prospect of being taken care of.

 _“Then, I’ll give you a back massage,”_ Bucky says smoothly over the phone. _“Using one of my favorite massage oils, trust me, you’ll love it.”_

“This is all I’m gonna be thinking about all day,” Steve moans. His back, always in a perpetual state of pain, twinges at the thought of it.

_“And then I’ll have you sit on my face.”_

“Hngh.” Steve’s voice fails.

_“See how many times I can make you come with my tongue deep in your a—”_

The door to the shop opens, and Steve squeaks as he scrambles, elbow rolling off the table as he stumbles to standing.

“I gotta go! I—” Steve hangs up amidst Bucky’s howling laughter and quickly turns to the late evening customer who has straggled in.

“Welcome to Commandos! Best coffee this side of the river.”

The teenager stares at him for a moment, then squints his eyes. “The Hudson? The East?”

Steve grins. “The whole damn Mississippi, son. What can I get for ya?”

“I’m sorry.”

The next evening, Bucky shows up at his door with two paper bags in one arm, and a white box wrapped in a silver ribbon. He’s purposefully demure, shoulders hunched, lips pouty, eyes overly wide and soft.

“Oh my God, Bucky,” Steve says, a smile pulling at his lips. “You look like a Goddamn cartoon character.”

Bucky’s whole demeanor changes, straightening up and giving him a winning smile back, handsome as the devil, gleaming in the sunlight. He looks like something out of a movie, hair tucked neatly behind his ear.

“Get in here, you ass,” Steve says.

Bucky hands Steve the white box before he drops the paper bags on the counter. Steve toys with the ribbon for a moment, then pulls it loose, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. He opens it slowly, pulls back white tissue paper, and gasps.

Inside is a deep green scarf, coiled delicately in the paper. Steve reaches in to run his fingertips over the length of it, then pulls it out of the box to watch it unfurl.

“Is this cashmere?” Steve breathes. “Bucky, I was mostly kidding about being upset, you know that right?”

Bucky grins from the sink, where he’s busy washing something. “I gotta be sure you’re happy, doll.”

“But this has got to be…” Too much money.

“It’s on sale because it’s summer,” Bucky says dismissively. “Hey, so one of the bags leaked all over my shirt, you mind if I take a quick rinse in the bathroom?”

Steve peels his eyes away from the gorgeous scarf. Bucky has a wide red stain on his gray t-shirt, taking up most of his abdomen.

“Jeez Buck, you look like something stabbed you,” Steve says. “Which, with you, could actually be the case I realize.”

Bucky snorts. “The bag from the butcher’s shop was leaking, so technically it is blood.”

“Go ahead, use the bathroom. I think Clint might have something that could fit you,” Steve says, taking care to coil the scarf back in the box. He’s almost sure Clint will have a shirt in Natasha’s room, which Steve will tease the shit out of Natasha for if true.

He puts the box on the counter, then looks up at Bucky watching with greedy eyes as he strips off his shirt. He frowns when he sees a new bruise on his left pec, bright and red.

Steve puts the box on the counter and grabs Bucky’s shirt, tossing it over the chair next to him. “Someone got a hit in, huh,” Steve says, fingertips coming to hover in the air over the red spot.

“It happens,” Bucky says mildly. “Kiss it better?”

Steve blinks up at Bucky under his lashes, much better than Bucky at the coy, bashful look. Bucky’s eyes dilate, and he bites his lip, getting ready for a kiss.

Steve tuts. “While you smell like raw meat? Not on your life.”

Bucky pouts.

Steve rolls his eyes. “So go take a shower, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

“Maybe?” Bucky asks.

“Maybe I’ll kiss you _everywhere_ you’re clean,” Steve winks.

Bucky grins and rushes to the bathroom, and Steve laughs.

His eyes fall on the box on the counter again. It really is a lovely scarf, he thinks as he runs his fingers through the fabric again. But he has to wonder about how much it costs. He doesn’t know how he feels about Bucky buying him things so expensive. It’s clear as day he has money, it’s painted on everything he wears and everything he does.

But he’s also so unpretentious about it, Steve thinks as he goes to the front closet, digging for some cleaning supplies. Most of their time has been spent at Steve’s dingy apartment. They’ve eaten at cheap ice cream shops and dinners, and walked along the beach.

And Bucky can’t help his apartment, or his clothes for work, he has an appearance to maintain. But he’s just so… down to earth.

So maybe one slightly expensive scarf isn’t the worst thing in the world.

“Steve, you home?” Clint’s voice filters into the apartment.

“Yeah,” Steve shouts, pulling out some cleaning fluid and heading back to the kitchen.

Sam’s sitting at the table, looking at the t-shirt with an odd expression. “Spill something?”

“That’s not mine, it’s Bucky’s,” Steve says, filling up one of the kitchen sinks with water.

“You doin’ his laundry now?” Clint asks.

“No, but bloodstains are tough to get out, so I figure I’d spot treat it,” Steve says, grabbing the shirt and dripping soap over the stain.

“B-bl. How.”

“Hm?” Steve asks, dipping his shirt in the water and rubbing the fabric against itself, trying to get the worst of it out before it sets.

“I think what Sam is wondering,” Clint say slowly. “Is how did Bucky get blood all over his shirt?”

“How else do you get blood all over your shirt?” Steve asks smartly.

“You get shot?” Sam asks.

Steve stops and stares at Sam. “You think he got _shot?_ ”

“You asked me how I people get blood on their shirt!”

“And you immediately thought he got shot,” Steve says, disbelieving.

“Why would you ask in the first place?” Sam asks back, frantic.

“Because I thought you were going to say something like ‘oh a paper cut’ and then I was going to say something about how it wasn’t his blood—”

_“It’s not his blood?!”_

Steve stops scrubbing and just stares at Sam, completely dumbfounded as he nearly shouts the last statement, standing from his seat. Clint’s out of his seat as well, seemingly fighting with himself from moving somewhere, eyes darting between Sam, Steve, and the running shower in the bathroom.

“It’s just drippings from the meat from the butcher shop. See, it bled through the grocery bag.” Steve points at one of the paper bags on the counter, the bottom corner soaked red.

“Oh,” Sam says, and Clint slowly sits back down. “Oh.”

“Sam, what is going on? Lately you’ve been incredibly anxious, and that is really, really not like you,” Steve says. “Is it school? If you need to take a few less hours at the shop I’ll be happy to cover for you.”

“No, no I’m fine,” Sam says. “I’m, uh, going to go lie down, let me know when dinner’s ready.”

Sam stumbles to his room, looking exhausted, and Steve drops the shirt in the water, leaving it to soak for a moment.

“Clint, has Sam been doing okay?”

“He’s been under some stress. I think it’s work related,” Clint says stiffly.

Steve frowns.

“How have you been? You and Bucky?” Clint asks.

“It’s been good,” Steve says, letting the subject drop for the moment. “Like, really good.”

Clint stares at him for a moment, looking very uncertain.

“What, something on my face?”

Clint sighs, like he’s steeling himself. “Listen man, there’s something you should know,” he says.

Steve frowns further, crossing his arms. Clint’s also been moody for the last few weeks. Steve wonders if something is going on with his friends behind his back that he’s just not noticing. He has been known to miss the obvious, before.

“What is it, Clint?” Steve asks. “You can tell me anything.”

“Should I leave?”

They both turn as Bucky emerges from the bathroom, shirtless and smiling. Steve offers him a smile, before snapping back to Clint. “Clint?”

“No, it’s fine,” Clint mutters.

Clint disappears, and it’s time for Bucky to flex his muscles in the kitchen. Literally, as he refuses to put on a shirt, instead tying Sam’s old apron over his thick, muscled chest.

Steve tries not to drool as Bucky expertly slices the meat he brought with him, muscles of his bare back flexing and arching with the movements. Steve’s in charge of the polenta, a simple job of stirring butter into grains on the stove top, and has all the time in the world to admire his picturesque boyfriend.

“See something you like?” Bucky teases for the umpteenth time, still working his knife, this time slicing vegetables.

Steve lets the wooden spoon drag slowly through the polenta, staring openly at Bucky. One of his nipples is poking out the side, and for the last half hour Steve’s been imagining what he could be doing to it.

“Hush,” Steve says. “I’m focused on the polenta.”

“Really? Because it seized about 30 seconds ago.”

Steve’s head snaps back to the pot, and lo and behold the polenta has taken up the consistency of putty, refusing to give against his spoon.

“Shit,” Steve bemoans. “My polenta.”

“Should have paid more attention, Steve.” Bucky teases, turning and putting the vegetables in the oven.

“Can you blame me?” Steve asks, shamelessly watching as Bucky bends over and wondering vaguely what it tastes like.

“No. I’m hot as fuck,” Bucky says, slamming the oven shut, and Steve starts to laugh.

Dinner comes together (and so do Steve and Bucky, once or twice) before the rest of the apartment tenants make their way to the kitchen. Steve sets the table as Bucky pulls things from the oven and sets them down on the table. A new polenta prepared by Steve’s hands also joins the table, spooned into a bowl with a secretive wink to Bucky.

“I never knew you could cook,” Natasha comments to Bucky as she sits down across from him at the table, a glass of whiskey on ice in her hand.

Bucky smiles at her, sitting on Steve’s left. “It’s an acquired skill.” Turning to address the rest of the table, namely, Sam who is sitting oddly stiff in front of him, and Clint who has taken up the head of the table at Steve’s right, hunched over a beer, he tells them to feel free and serve themselves.

Steve’s disheartened, as it’s quiet for a few long moments, people reaching for bowls and glasses and plates, serving their meals. He wants to break the silence, but he also wants to use this opportunity to get his friends, mainly Sam and Clint, to realize what a good guy Bucky is.

“So, I know Natasha from when we were young,” Bucky says, breaking the silence after a moment of quiet chewing. “But I’m curious about the rest of Steve’s friends.” He turns to Sam with his winning smile, but Sam looks like he’s ready to break out in a sweat.

“Oh! Well…” Sam responds. He’s been wiping his hands on his napkin after he serves himself for nearly a minute, despite his hands already being clean. “I assure you we are pretty standard, boring people. Nothing to be curious about here.”

Steve arches an eyebrow at Sam’s uncharacteristic nerves. “Nonsense,” Steve says, trying to pick up the conversation. He turns to Bucky, pride in his voice. “Sam’s one of the smartest guys I know. He’s putting himself through college to be a social worker, going to help veterans return from overseas.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, and he looks suitably impressed. Steve feels proud at being able to help bolster Sam’s confidence and brag about his friend, Sam’s one of the best guys he’s ever met.

“That’s very impressive,” Bucky says, turning to Sam.. “How far along are you in your studies?”

“Uh… only about halfway through? I’m taking a pretty minimal load with work at the coffee shop right now.”

“You work there as well?”

“Weekends mostly. I’m also an owner,” Sam says, and Steve’s relieved to see him put the napkin down, relaxing into the conversation. It helps that Bucky seems so genuine about getting to know him.

“Very nice. So why veterans?”

Sam grows two inches in his chair, and Steve smiles to himself as Sam begins the story of his brother Riley, his return from Afghanistan, his suicide attempt, and how it drove Sam towards social work.

“Steve,” Natasha says as Bucky listens on to Sam. “This polenta is amazing, you made this?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, choosing not to mention how badly his first attempt had seized. “Bucky’s recipe though.”

“I honestly did not know he could cook,” Natasha says, shaking her head with a small smile.

“And I did not know you could drink single malt scotch on the rocks, but here we are, years later, still learning things,” Steve grins back, and Natasha chuckles at him.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me Steve,” she says. “But,” she qualifies, “you know a lot more than anyone else.”

Steve beams. He’s happy Natasha’s able to trust him after all this time, enough to share little things with him like this. While he does hope one day he’ll be able to hear the whole story, he knows he’ll have to wait until she’s ready.

Steve spares a glance at Sam. He’s sharing a story with Bucky, who is looking on in interest. Steve, slowly, starts to relax. Natasha’s listening on as she eats, content to stay quiet for the time being. Unfortunately, Clint’s silence is much more sullen, the man hunched over his food and picking at it, refusing to make eye contact with anyone at the table.

“Clint,” Steve asks, trying not to gain the attention of the others. “You feeling alright? What was it you wanted to talk about earlier?”

“Don’ worry about it,” Clint says through a mouthful of food.

“Clint—”

“Not _now_ Steve, okay?” Clint snaps.

The table falls into silence, Clint a lot louder than expected. Steve’s face colors, and yet Clint doesn’t even look abashed, still picking away mechanically at his food.

The food Bucky (and Steve, but mostly Bucky) spent a lot of time preparing for him. Clint could at least have the decency to act polite. All Steve wants is for him to make an effort—he honestly doesn’t understand this misplaced animosity, he doesn’t even know Bucky.

Bucky rescues the dinner by simply ignoring Clint’s outburst and asking Natasha about her family.

“They’re doing alright,” Natasha says. “Mom’s been wrapped up in work lately, but she still calls on the weekends. We’re gonna try to see a movie, I think there’s a new superhero one out—”

“Your mom the cop, right?” Clint asks suddenly.

Steve glances at Clint, confused because he’s sure Clint knew that. Natasha pauses a moment before answering, slowly. “The detective, yes.”

“Ms. Danvers and I are well acquainted,” Bucky says smoothly. “How are she and Ms. Rambaeu?”

“Still going strong,” Natasha says. “Maria’s basically like a sister now. It’s… odd. To be relied on like that.”

“I think you’d make a great sister, Nat,” Steve comments. “I mean, you have to deal with Clint, so clearly you’re good with children.”

Everyone chuckles except Clint, who can usually handle a bit of ribbing at his own expense, but seems to have a critical eye set on Bucky tonight. “So you know Carol.”

“I do,” Bucky says, smiling. “Remember, I helped Natasha get adopted.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Clint says with a little bit of heat.

“Some homosexual couples find a lot of resistance, adopting children,” Bucky says. “Luckily, our home has no such issue.”

“Also helps to have a favor in the pocket of a NYPD detective,” Clint says.

Favor…?

“And what do you do, Clint?” Bucky asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Clint stop,” Steve snaps, cheeks going red. He turns to Bucky, trying to keep the peace. “Clint likes to keep the mystery in his work life.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Ok, well what about hobbies? You must do something with your time.”

“Nope. Like Stevie said, mystery man,” Clint says, pulling from his beer.

“Don’t call me Stevie, Clint,” Steve says, starting to grow annoyed at his antics. Why the hell was he being such an ass tonight?

Natasha sighs. “In his spare time he goes to bars and swindles people out of their money playing darts.” Steve’s not surprised Natasha knows a bit more about Clint than the rest of them.

“That’s a very useful skill to have. You must be pretty good,” Bucky says.

Clint is still eyeing Bucky. “I’m a very good shot,” he says.

“Really,” Bucky leans forward, intrigued. “I happen to know my way around a gun as well.”

“Oh I don’t doubt it. Maybe we should have a shootout, see who wins, yeah?”

On the other side of the table, Sam is twisting his napkin in his hands again.

“That could be fun,” Bucky grins. Clint doesn’t smile back, looking almost frustrated. The energy of the table had grown stifling, and Steve looks for a way to carry the conversation somewhere else.

“Well that’s not the only thing you do in your spare time, right?” Steve says, frantically looking for a change of topic. “What’s this whole thing with the Russian mafia?”

Everyone at the table freezes. Natasha is frozen, mid-chew, and Sam looks ready to rip his napkin in half. Even Clint’s gone pale, looking like he’s biting the inside of his mouth.

“The Russian mafia?” Bucky asks, laughing. “What in God’s name could you be doing with them?”

“Nothing,” Sam says.

“Nothing?” Bucky asks.

“It’s _not_ nothing,” Steve says, wondering what the fuck is up with everyone else, but not wanting to ask at the table. “Some guys keep shaking down his apartment, raising his rent and harassing other tenants. Apparently one of them kicked a dog? It’s a whole mess.”

“Christ, that doesn’t sound good,” Bucky says. “Have you contacted the police at all?”

Clint doesn’t look like he’s going to respond anytime soon, but Natasha jumps in. “He did, but they don’t seem eager to look into it,” she says. “I talked to Mom, but it’s not her precinct and she doesn’t know anyone over there to help.”

Bucky leans back in his seat, eyebrow raised in interest. “This is in Bed-Stuy?”

“Yeah—how did you know?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, in my building,” Clint says, ignoring Steve. “Not really a fan of guys shaking innocent people down for their hard earned money,” he says firmly.

Bucky nods. “Maybe if the police were to hear from me, they’d be more inclined to act.”

“I— _what_?” Clint sputters. He looks genuinely taken aback, beer held aloft halfway to his mouth, eyes open wide in surprise. “Why… would you do that?”

“I’m not a fan of innocent people losing their hard earned money for no reason,” Bucky says, then shrugs a shoulder. “Or anyone that would kick a dog.”

Steve is touched that Bucky would use his status to try and get Clint’s apartment back in order. Rent is already skyrocketing in Brooklyn, no matter how much money Clint had, if he’s losing most of it to these guys for no reason other than greed, then something has to be done.

Clint for his part looks somehow both chagrined and placated at the same time, a difficult look to pull off.

“Hm,” Clint hums. “Thanks.”

Steve reaches over and squeezes Bucky’s knee under the table as his own version of a thank you, and Bucky gives him a smile back. “Now dinner wouldn’t be complete without dessert, would it?”

About an hour later finds Steve on his back on the loveseat, Bucky lying on top of him with his head against his chest, legs hanging off the end.

Small plates of what used to be cake litter the coffee table, something thick and vanilla and delicious. Nat and Clint begged off to bed a little while after dessert was served, both going into Natasha’s room, which Steve needs to remember to tease her about. Sam and Bucky chatted for a while longer about social work and their pasts as Steve tried not to fall asleep into Bucky’s shoulder.

When Sam finally left, Steve pulled Bucky down into his lap and they ended up as they were, sprawled and sleepy together on the tired little loveseat.

“‘m sorry about my dad,” Bucky says into Steve’s chest.

Steve snorts. He’d nearly forgotten about that. It seemed like such a faraway memory.

“It’s okay. I get that sometimes parents are embarrassing. Thanks for making dinner so good,” Steve says.

“No problem, baby,” Bucky says.

“I mean it. I really wanted you to get along with my friends. Sam and Clint seemed really standoffish at first. I’ve had such bad hookups before they’ve had to deal with, I guess they’re just used to that. I wanted them to meet you, to see how nice you really are,” Steve says. “And you just proved it.”

Bucky stays quiet as Steve’s fingers run patterns through Bucky’s hair.

“Though,” Steve says a moment later. “I do remember being promised chocolates, and that cake was delightful, but definitely vanilla.”

Bucky make a small noise into Steve’s chest, rumbles echoing through his rib-cage. “I’ll have to rain-check the chocolate, unfortunately, but I’d be happy to oblige your other gift.”

Steve snorts. “I bet you would, cowboy, but I’m much too full tonight.”

“Aw damn,” Bucky says without any heat, and Steve chuckles once again playing with the strands of his hair. He’s full, he’s content, he has a beautiful man in his arms, and Steve decides that he really, _really,_ wants to get used to this.

“All that stuff about the mafia is pretty wild,” Bucky says mildly, snuggling further into Steve’s chest.

“Tell me about it.” Organized crime always felt like a game for the rich, or an episode of a sitcom, or men in hats with machine guns, trying to smuggle cocaine. “You really think you can help Clint?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Those guys are criminals.”

“The epitome of criminal,” Steve says. “The freakin’ _mafia_.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. Steve lets his eyes fall shut, wondering how bad his back would be if he decided to fall asleep on the loveseat.

“Al Capone wasn’t too bad,” Bucky says.

“What?” Steve mumbles, halfway asleep.

“He gave from the rich to the poor. Looked out for people. Helped the sick.”

“Yeah, but he also killed a lot of people,” Steve says. “And extorted more, and got super rich himself.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Steve’s close to drifting off again, when Bucky shifts and speaks.

“Organized crime is probably not at all like that though. Glitz and glamor. Capone died when he was in his 30s.”

“That’s probably true,” Steve says, eyes blinking open.

“Some families survive longer than others for a reason. Gotta stay quiet about that kind of stuff, operate within means, keep community trust,” Bucky says. “It’s not glamorous. It’s dangerous. And…isolating. Some of these guys, family’s all they have.”

Steve frowns to the ceiling. “Why are you talking about this so much? Did you just see a documentary or something?”

“I…” Bucky trails off, sounding a little lost.

“You’re not empathizing with these guys are you?” Steve asks, brow furrowed. He looks down at Bucky on his chest, who is looking up at Steve with guarded eyes.

“No—”

“Because anyone that extorts people like Clint is a bad guy, plain and simple,” Steve says firmly.

“I agree,” Bucky says quickly. “Completely.”

“Good,” Steve says. The mood threatens to teeter in to awkward, and Steve refuses to let it. “Now pick me up, and take me to bed,” Steve says.

Bucky snorts, and starts to stand up, a smooth smile on his face. “Aye aye, Cap’n,” he says, reaching down to cradle Steve in his arms.

Steve smiles back, but when Bucky turns his head away, it slips off of his face.

Something doesn't feel right about their conversation, and Steve can't quite put his finger on why. It seemed so... out of the blue, almost like Bucky was defending these guys. And yet, Bucky didn't seem to like what they were doing at all.

Steve decides to keep a sharper eye on what's going on with Clint and his apartment. And it's about time he figured out what's going on with his friends.


	8. Sympathy for The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Steve gets no answers, Bucky's really tired, and Clint goes through something. Also, a cliffhanger!!!! Of course one of these chapter titles has to be 'Sympathy for The Devil'. Points if you know the song! 
> 
> (Sorry I'm late to update and shit at comment responses right now. I'm not handling this virus thing super well.)
> 
> Warning: Some scary stuff happens at the end of this chapter, involving Steve and some frightening circumstances. If you'd like a spoilery warning, please read below.
> 
> Enjoy!

# Chapter 8: Sympathy for The Devil

Steve’s first move in the plan to figure out what the fuck was going on was to corner Clint as soon as possible and demand for him to tell him everything.

But the morning after the successful (?) dinner party, Clint is nowhere to be found. Not on the couch, nor in Natasha’s room.

“He walked me to work last night,” Natasha explains when she comes home a little while later, a bag with a breakfast bagel in her hand.

Steve frowns, pouring the rest of a mango blueberry smoothie into his glass. How convenient of him.

“How was work?” Steve asks.

“Pretty good, actually,” Natasha says, biting down. “There were two bachelor parties last night, and one of the groom-to-be’s, quote, ‘wanted one last taste of a redhead before he got chained down for good’.”

Steve shakes his head. “Gross.”

Natasha shrugs. “Pays well. Bucky’s still here?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He’s out like a light though.”

“So no waking the neighbors,” Natasha says dryly.

Steve snorts, taking a sip of his smoothie. “I think… I think he’s under a lot of stress at work. Lately he’s been looking more and more run down, kinda falling asleep when we relax. Figured I’d let him rest if he doesn’t have anywhere to be.”

“That’s kind of you,” Natasha says, digging into her sandwich. Steve shrugs his shoulders. He prepares coffee in relative silence as Natasha flips on the TV. If Clint’s not here, then Steve’s going to try and figure out what’s got Sam so stressed out once he wakes up.

“Want a cup?”

“Nah,” Natasha says with her mouth full.

Steve nods, and starts popping pills. As the coffee brews, Bucky emerges from Steve’s room in Clint’s t-shirt and Steve’s loosest pair of basketball shorts, which were stretched to their limit around Bucky’s considerable thighs, and left absolutely nothing to the imagination between his legs.

“Might wake the neighbors yet,” Natasha mutters, likely noticing the way Steve’s nearly drooling over the sight, and Steve gives her a mild glare before turning back to the man.

“There’s coffee,” Steve says, and Bucky smiles in response, hair frizzy again around his head.

“Morning Barnes,” Natasha says.

“Morning Natasha,” Bucky says, pouring himself a cup. “Morning sweetheart.”

“Morning, Buck,” Steve says, making room for him at the table.

“So,” Steve says to the both of them. “Pride’s next weekend.” He feels his face split into a grin, and Natasha turns from the couch and grins back. Pride’s always been a good time for the both of them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been,” Bucky says.

“Really? It’s so much fun, Buck.” Steve’s surprised; he celebrates Pride like it’s a national holiday, not going into work for the whole weekend, and frankly trying to enjoy himself as much as he can. “There’s the Brooklyn Parade, than the New York parade a week later. For that one, Thor usually has a party at his condo before we go out.”

Bucky looks like he’s considering it. “That sounds like fun. I think I’ve only seen the New York Parade once or twice.”

“I like Brooklyn’s better, because it’s smaller and all the locals are there,” Steve says. “Plus I’m friends with a lot of the local gay rugby team, and they get to march.”

Natasha snorts unceremoniously, and would probably have a snarky comment if her mouth wasn’t full of egg and cheese. Steve gives her another look, and she smirks back.

So maybe 'being friends’ with the rugby team wasn’t the right terminology. They certainly enjoyed his company, at least.

In his own defense, they’re _rugby players._

“New York Pride is the weekend after,” Steve barrels on, ignoring the way his face heats. “Or, well, it’s the whole week, but I usually only have time for the parade, and going out afterward.”

Natasha stands up, stretching her arms over her head, crumpling up the paper bag into a ball. “I’ll join you guys for the NY festivities, but I’ll leave Brooklyn to you two. Have to work every day that weekend to get the next one off,” she explains.

“You off to bed?” Steve asks.

“Nope. Need to sweet talk a bank teller into counting 600 one dollar bills,” she quips, heading to her room to likely collect her cash.

“That’s a good living,” Bucky says mildly, from his seat next to Steve, sipping his coffee like it’s life blood. “When stripping and sex work are properly managed, they can be lucrative careers.”

Surprised, but pleased at Bucky’s blunt statement, Steve nods eagerly. “Definitely! I’ve never been to Natasha’s club, but she says it’s small but higher end, and has a zero-tolerance policy for harassment.”

“That’s good,” Bucky nods, looking pleased, himself. “Hey, so I’m going to be a bit busier than usual the next couple of weeks,” Bucky says. “I’ll do my best to be there for Pride, but I may be a bit hard to contact.”

“Is everything alright?” Steve asks, worried.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs. “Just… One of the contracts I’m working on is going tits up, and I need to put in more time to fix it.” He looks tired just talking about it, and Steve furrows his brow, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“When’s the last time you had a good night’s sleep, Buck?” Steve asks.

“Last night, technically,” Bucky says, running his finger through his hair to flatten it out. “Before that… It’s been a few days, I think.”

“You’re overworking yourself,” Steve says, frowning.

Natasha takes that moment to walk into the kitchen, wearing a sunny looking dress and plastic sunglasses. “Pot, meet kettle,” she says.

Steve glares, and Bucky frowns. “Steve, are you not getting enough sleep either?”

“I am—”

“But he overworks himself,” Natasha says, jamming a roll of ones into her purse. “Who _owns_ a coffee shop, but still works the register?”

“We’re understaffed,” Steve rolls his eyes. He’s sick of this argument.

“Which made sense when you weren’t cutting a profit, but that’s not the case anymore, is it?” Natasha says before exiting the apartment.

Steve sighs in annoyance, turning to Bucky, who has an eyebrow raised. “Aren’t we a pair?” Bucky says.

Steve snorts and hides his embarrassment in his coffee.

Despite his best efforts, Steve’s unable to get more than a few words out of Sam over the next week. The good thing is that Sam seems to be at much more ease with Bucky than before, which was a great outcome of their dinner. He _does_ seem to be less stressed now, but Steve still can't help but worry. But, other than accosting him in the back room of the coffee shop during break and demanding answers, his only choice was to wait for Sam to open up to him about what’s going on, when he’s ready.

Clint doesn’t even grace the apartment with his presence for the whole week, and even Natasha seems a little worried at his sudden absence. Despite his behavior, Steve still finds himself missing the guy, though if asked, he’d probably just say how much he missed the free food.

Bucky was harder to text this week, taking hours to respond at times. And Steve can't help but start to feel lonely, his paintings full of blues and grays. A silver lining is that sad paintings tend to sell better, which is probably a comment on the sad state of society, Steve thinks derisively.

But when Saturday comes around, Steve tries hard to push all of his unease out of his mind for a little while, refusing to let the rain fall on his favorite day of the year: Brooklyn Pride. Especially since he gets to see Bucky’s face again, after a week that was far too long.

New York has one of the largest Pride parades in the world, and it leaves Manhattan a sparkly rainbow mess as people from all over the world flock to the streets to celebrate being themselves. And while Steve has fun, the week before is Brooklyn’s time to shine. Local shops wave their flags as the parade walks by. College bands and cheerleading squads perform music and tricks for the crowds. Dykes on bikes ride by with flags of all colors waving from the back of their Harleys, all female drum lines banging behind them, nipples free to the wind. Drag kings and drag queens push gender to new bounds and heels to new heights, and local sports groups advertise their sports with the hottest athletes marching in front, including one of Steve’s favorites…

“There!” Steve points over the crowd at a group of tall, strong men in various states of undress, some wearing nothing but extra tight briefs, showing off as much of their skin as possible. He himself is down to a tank top, with khaki shorts and tennis shoes.

“The rugby team, doll?” Bucky says from below Steve, taking a sip from his water bottle and adjusting his sunglasses. When they first arrived, late because someone (Steve) decided to very thoroughly express his pleasure at seeing the other again (twice), the street was already filled out with people, families, friends, and couples of all shapes and sizes, all much taller than little Steve Rogers. But before Steve even had the chance to complain, Bucky had knelt down and beckoned him over. In less than a second, Steve had his legs wrapped around Bucky’s neck (technically, for the second time that day), and was sitting on his shoulders, towering above the crowd.

“Yep!” Steve shouts over the music blasting from the float in front of them. “I know a bunch of them—hey, Thor!”

Steve waves, and Thor catches sight of him and waves back wildly, also catching the attention of some of the other players. Scott grins at him, Erik spares him a nod behind his aviators, and Logan gives him an eyebrow and a once over, like he’s not got his legs wrapped around another man already.

“And how do you know the rugby team so well, sweetheart?” Bucky says with a teasing lilt to his voice. Steve does notice that his hand has gripped Steve's ankle tightly, like he’s getting ready to stake a claim.

Steve places his hand on top of Bucky's and interlaces their fingers, forcing Bucky to relax and take Steve's hand in his.

“You know you’re the only one for me, right?” Steve says so only he can hear.

Bucky squeezes his palm, then kisses the inside of Steve’s knee. “I know.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Anyway, I know them so well because I fucked half the team.”

Bucky chokes, then starts to laugh. “Honestly? I’m impressed.”

Steve grins. He’s happy he gets to joke about this with Bucky, even if it’s just lightly. He's been around his share of slut-shamers and judgmental assholes and doesn’t have the emotional energy to care what they think anymore. But the fact that Bucky could just absorb a statement like that about him and not think of him differently was refreshing. Bucky doesn’t expect him to pretend he’s some version of innocent and pure. He just…he just takes Steve as he is.

“Hey,” Steve says after the rugby team passes, replaced by an all women's softball league. “I’m really, really glad I know you Bucky.”

Bucky looks up at him and smiles. “Me too.”

Steve absently shakes his arm out as it goes to sleep again, still happily perched on Bucky’s shoulders as they walk back to Bucky’s place.

“Not to ruin the mood,” Bucky says with a sad sigh. “But work needs me in Malibu next weekend. We need to renegotiate our contract with a client. So I’m going to miss the big parade.”

“Aw, damn.” Steve says. Though honestly, he’s just happy to be able to share Brooklyn Pride with him, the event being a bit closer to Steve’s heart than NY pride.

“It should only be from Friday to Monday, we can get dinner after I get back,” Bucky says.

“Only if you aren’t too tired,” Steve warns. “We can always order in and relax.”

Bucky chuckles, perhaps a little nervous. “I don’t want to bore you to death.”

“There’s no way I can be bored with you,” Steve says confidently.

Bucky snorts. “I doubt that, especially if I fall asleep.”

“Even if it’s just to sleep, I’d rather be with you then not,” Steve says automatically. He’s surprised he said that, but finds that the sentiment is true, especially after a week of being away from him. The idea of finishing up a painting, or reading a book, or even doing some clerical work for the shop, somehow feels a bit nicer, if he gets to share the same space as Bucky while he does it.

“…Me too, Steve,” Bucky says quietly, stroking Steve’s ankle. “We’ll play it by ear then, when I get back. And I promise I won’t be this tired for too much longer. There’s a lot riding on this contract, and we’re not leaving Malibu until things are ironed out.”

“Always good to have a light at the end of the tunnel,” Steve says. They enjoy the walk for a while, Bucky showing no signs of tiring with Steve on his shoulders. They’re both hot and sweaty, and Steve is looking forward to Bucky’s massive shower stall and a glass of ice water when they get back.

They end up in the shower together when they get back, taking much too long to clean each other up. Steve wouldn’t call himself touch starved, but there was something unquestionably intimate about another man’s hands on his body for the purposes of cleaning, of being touched just to be touched. Bucky spends a silly amount of time on his own hair (who needs three rinses of shampoo?), so Steve climbs out of the stall first to peruse Bucky’s numerous lotions, settling on lavender to work into his skin.

“Did you get a chance to talk to the police about Clint’s problem?” Steve asks carefully as they both slip into Bucky’s clothes.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, then sighs heavily, sitting on the bed. “Crap. I have to deal with that this week too.”

Steve frowns. He was going to probe, but he’s a bit more worried about Bucky’s mental state right now. Once he finishes pulling on his clothes, he walks towards the man, who is seated, slumped on the edge of the bed. When he gets within reach, Bucky looks up, and Steve wraps his arms around the other man’s neck, hugging his head to his chest.

“Steve. I’m tired,” Bucky says simply, vulnerably, head curling into Steve’s thin chest.

Gently, Steve digs his fingers into Bucky’s scalp and scratches his head with his nails. “I think we might need to work on your work-life balance, honey,” Steve says, voice matching Bucky’s in pitch.

“I’m a boss,” Bucky says. “I have to be always on, always ready, 24/7.”

“Bullshit,” Steve says. “That’s impossible. I own my own company and I’m constantly swamped with customers and opportunities and emails, but I still find time for myself. To date, to make art, to celebrate my favorite day with my best guy.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve pulls Bucky off his chest and gives him a stern look. “Your Dad probably takes breaks at some point.”

Bucky snorts. “Yes, and no. He’s always as scary as he looks.”

“But he loves your mother, I can tell,” Steve says.

“Yeah…”

“And from what I know of your mother, she probably doesn’t take too much shit,” Steve says.

“Nope.”

“Do they still go on dates? Still have dinner together? Sleep in the same bed?”

Bucky nods, slowly. “When they can, I’m pretty sure.”

“There. Work-life balance. Time off is just as important as time on. Without it, you’ll burn to a crisp instead of keeping your cool.”

“You’re so smart,” Bucky says, softly. “You’re so… Fuck. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, and he puts his hand under Bucky’s chin, turning his head so he looks right at Steve. He’s never seen this side of Bucky before, so tired and un-self-assured, and it lights a fire in him. He never wants to see that expression on his face.

“Absolutely not.” Steve says. “None of that. I won’t allow it. You deserve the _world_ , Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s return smile is weak. He tucks his head into Steve’s chest again, and they share a hug on his king sized bed.

Steve saw very little of Bucky over the next week. Part of it was him likely preparing for whatever contract he had to negotiate in Malibu, but another, Steve thinks, has to do with what’s going on with Clint.

And Steve finally has the chance to corner him on a Thursday night after work, where he catches him coming out of Natasha’s room.

“Clint, how are things at the apartment? Are you alright? How is Bucky?” Steve asks in a rapid-fire manner from the kitchen.

“Slow down, let me grab a beer first Stevie—Steve, I mean,” Clint says tiredly.

Steve pauses in surprise. This would be the first time, ever, Clint’s corrected himself saying Steve’s name.

Clint looks a bit worse for wear, grabbing a beer from his stash in their fridge, and sprawling on the couch. He takes a long sip and puts it on the table, and Steve takes the time to give him a once over—he looks like he has more bandages than usual, at least, and he has a few lines under his eyes.

“You were right, and I was wrong,” Clint says, closing his eyes.

“…About what?”

“Bucky.” Clint says, taking another pull and grimacing. “He’s a good guy.”

Steve pauses for a moment, digesting his words. “I know. What changed your mind?”

“He helped me with the assholes at the apartment. Guess he knows a guy who knows a guy, ‘cause now they’re gone,” Clint says.

“Just like that?”

Clint winces. “Sorta. I dunno. Mafia’s complicated, people got people everywhere. But I guess when Bucky wants something done, it gets done.”

“Clint, that’s fantastic!” Steve says. Despite how worried he is about Bucky overworking himself, the fact that he was able to get something like that done is still incredible. “And they put someone else in charge? Someone responsible?”

Clint laughs, hard enough to spill his beer. “If that’s what you call someone who’s bringing rent prices below market average and hiring a non-shitty maintenance guy and hoping for the best.”

Steve blinks, then says, slowly, “Yes. Responsible. Because all that _is_ what a responsible person would do.”

“Is that right,” Clint says mildly. “Anyway, I might be over a bit less now, so no more worrying about me crashing on your couch.”

Steve shrugs. “In all honesty, I kinda missed you here.”

Clint cracks open an eye, grinning at him. “You missed me Stevie? Uh. Steve?”

Steve snorts. “In a way.”

“I’ll still be around. But I got a dog now,” Clint says. “That’s responsibility, too.”

“Do you have pictures?” Steve asks eagerly.

“Who do you think I am? Of course I have pictures.” Clint leans up to grab his phone, and Steve walks around his couch to the other side to look at the sweet dog Clint made his own.

Steve’s sad when Bucky takes off for Malibu, but he manages to give him such a memorable goodbye that Steve is limping for about an hour afterward. His mood about the week has turned up. Clint has more or less returned, though not staying the night as often. Natasha, happy that Clint has returned, is also feeling better, and Sam’s opening back up again. Steve’s just happy to have his friends back.

When NY Pride finally arrives, Steve’s nearly radiating with excitement. Darcy and Wanda were supposed to be bar hopping around the same area they were, but Steve is pretty sure they’re going to be around a slightly younger crowd than them, and doesn't bank on them meeting up.

They arrive at Thor’s house when the party is in full swing. Natasha’s wearing a deep red dress that is very, very short, and a pair of tennis shoes, while Steve’s got his tightest t-shirt and shorts that he owns.

Thor’s house blares music so loud it can be heard from the street, and people are spilling from the inside out. Forty or so people are crowded in Thor’s kitchen and dining room, drinking things from red cups and trying to chat over loud music. Steve walks around for a while, trying to find and catch up with everyone he knows, including some members of the rugby team that tease him good-naturedly for going off the market.

Natasha makes herself a drink and they steal a spot on the couch when it opens up, Natasha crossing her legs in her very short dress expertly. She’s complimented by a couple in the lazy chair next to her, and Steve listens to their conversation with half an ear.

“So,” comes a voice from Steve’s left, and Steve grins, looking up. “Where is this man who has taken you from me?” Thor says, mock furious, massive arms crossing his chest.

“He had to work.” Steve can’t stop grinning, standing up to give Thor a hug. As much as he enjoys being in Thor’s arms, Steve can’t help but compare to Bucky’s hugs, which make him feel a different kind of warmth in his chest.

“Ah, so he is your sugar Daddy,” Thor nods, fingers stroking his stubble, and Steve laughs. “Is that what it is? You don’t think I can provide for you, Steven?” Thor has made a decent living as a model, though Steve knows his passion really lies in writing.

Steve snorts. “He’s not my sugar Daddy.”

Thor leans closer, conspiratorially. “Is his dick bigger? You’d tell me, right?”

Steve laughs. “I refuse to answer the question.”

Thor shakes his head, leaning back. “Alas, I’m not sure I will survive such heartbreak,” Thor says dramatically, looking away and almost immediately finding the gaze of a wiry brunette who’s been giving Thor bedroom eyes from across the room.

“Hmm… I seem to have made a sudden recovery,” Thor says slowly, then he turns back to Steve and winks.

Steve snorts. “Go ahead buddy,” he says, and Thor grins and pats him on the shoulder.

“Natasha,” Thor gives her a small nod. “Your legs are lovely as always.”

“Pilates,” Natasha says. “And your arms are looking spectacular.”

“Rugby,” he grins. “The women's team has openings by the way, I’m sure Val would love to have you.”

“I bet she would,” Steve mutters and Thor laughs, patting Steve on the shoulder again before leaving to find his latest partner of the evening.

Time blurs together. Somehow, Natasha and Steve and several others end up covered in glitter, and Steve pours himself his first and only drink of the evening and joins in with the crowd singing along to 80s hits.

They eventually leave for the bar, Thor only a few blocks from the party central, and their large group bleeds in with many others on their way to celebrate. Some break off for the more intense clubs, but Steve and Natasha and many others head towards a simple bar with a patio for relaxing.

They’re standing around a table, Steve and Natasha with Thor, Val, Jane, and a few others, chatting about whatever, and enjoying the night. Feeling thirsty, Steve excuses himself for the bar. He squeezes his way between two people to try and get the attention of the bartender. After a few minutes he manages to order a cranberry juice, hoping the sugar can keep him going for a little while longer. While he can feel himself getting tired, his back aching and feet burning, Natasha’s smiling and laughing and having fun, so Steve wants to hold out a little longer if he can.

He’s served, and digs into his wallet for cash, putting it on the table and eagerly drinking about half the cup as he meanders back to the table. Val had pulled Jane into her lap, and they looked seconds away from tearing each other apart to everyone’s amusement, and Natasha’s once again being complimented by a stranger for her dress choice, though she’s teased a bit for not wearing heels.

“Not all of us can wear heels like my brother!” Thor says, and the group laughs.

Steve catches up a bit with Erik before his stomach starts to gurgle annoyingly. “Bathroom!” he calls to the table, before working to push through the crowd and find the toilet. He yawns and leans against the hallway wall, the bathroom line a few people deep. His stomach rolls again, and Steve grimaces, wondering if he ate something, or if one of his meds’ side effects were kicking in. He’s been dealing with nausea ever since he started on his current medicine regime; usually a trip to the bathroom and some soda clears it up.

The line trickles forward. Steve’s too tired to lift himself off the wall, so he sort of slides his body along as he moves forward. It’s a gender neutral bathroom, and a gaggle of girls just went in, so it may be a while. Steve yawns, again, then squints his eyes as the lights flicker brighter behind his eyes. He tries to blink it away, but his eyelids feel heavy and slow, like he’s woken up out of a deep sleep, and is ready to fall back in. He swallows, and tastes cranberry juice.

The line had moved ahead. Steve makes to move forward, but his legs don’t agree with him, and he ends up tripping over himself and collapsing onto the ground, hands just barely breaking his fall. He feels ready to heave, on his hands and knees, staring, unfocused, at specks of dirt on the wooden floor.

“Hey man, you alright?” The man behind him asks, reaching down to help him up. Steve tries to grab his hand, but he can’t seem to figure out where it is on his body. He tries to speak, but he can’t seem to gather enough breath. Every time he inhales, his body forces the air right back out.

“Shit, Steve, there you are. I told you not to have that last shot,” a worried voice says. His body is being pulled up by the armpits. He can’t help but lean his body into his savior’s, sagging heavily into a strong and familiar chest. “Stevie, Jesus, you’re alright.”

“D-don’…call’m…” Steve can barely think. He’s so tired, he should have left earlier, it’s too crowded, too many people bearing down on him.

He’s being moved now. His feet barely catch the ground, his steps staggering and uneven, but suddenly he’s outside. The air is refreshingly cool, but it still smells like cigarettes and sweat. His breath is coming in tiny gasps.

“…had too much,” someone was saying to someone else. Steve sees a street curb below him and tries to sit down. He slips out of the man’s grasp, and collapses backwards, staring at the stars. Wait. Had too much? Steve barely had anything.

He tries to sit up, but he can’t even move his head off the ground. There’s yelling, a lot of it, to his right, and someone is above him, putting their fingers to his neck. He tries to tell them that he’s only had one drink because of his meds, tries to tell them to not call him Stevie because that name is forever his mother’s, tries to tell them to look at the metal bracelet around his wrist. But there’s no air left for words.

There’s no air left at all.

Red and blue lights blend to make purple. The moon, dull and yellow. A bright, blinding, white light—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _runs_
> 
> Warning: At a bar, Steve gets very tired, dizzy, and hyperventilates, and is taken by an unknown person to sit outside, where he stops breathing and passes out.


	9. Welcome to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Heavy shit, a realistic ER experience, medical issues, candid talk of diabetes, recovering from a near-death experience
> 
> Enjoy!

#  **Chapter 9: Welcome to Hell**

Steve wakes up in a hospital.

It’s certainly not his first time, and it’s probably not going to be his last. The lights are bright above his head, to his left an IV drips something into his arm. He turns his head, his whole body feeling like lead, and sees Natasha sitting in the chair next to him.

“Hey Steve,” Natasha says with a tight smile. She has silver glitter in her loose hair, a sweater over her party dress.

Steve moans. His head is throbbing dully, like it should be hurting, but he’s been given enough medication to prevent it. He’s nauseous as hell, and he can’t feel parts of his body.

“What’d I do this time,” Steve manages to slur out, letting his eyes fall shut. The light still cuts through his eyelids. His tongue is thick and misbehaving in his dry mouth.

“What do you remember?” Natasha asks, evasive.

“I remember… Thor’s party, and going to a bar, and then nothing,” Steve recites, then frowns. “But I only remember having one drink, I couldn’t’ve blacked out.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking at all on your medications,” Natasha says quietly.

“One’s usually okay,” Steve murmurs.

“Not when it’s spiked.”

Steve’s eyes fly open. “I was roofied?!”

Natasha nods, looking for all the world like she wishes it were otherwise. “And it hit you, _bad._ Then Rumlow tried to take you.”

“What the fuck, Rumlow?!” Steve shouts. Roofied? Rumlow? Was he trying to-to…

“Erik and Thor caught him trying to get you out of the bar. They were beating the shit out of him by the time the cops showed up.”

“Shit,” Steve gasps, and he feels like he should be having a panic attack, but his body is not letting him. His stomach rolls, but stays down. “Shit.” What would have happened, had Natasha and Thor not been there?

“You were unresponsive Steve. By the time I got to you, you were completely gone. I couldn’t even find your pulse, Steve,” Natasha’s voice cracks, and Steve turns to see her wiping her eyes. He feels his heart drop, because Natasha never, ever cries. “Too many things in your body trying to pull your blood pressure down,” Natasha says. “They gave you activated charcoal to get it out, then something to stop you from throwing up. Without that…” Her words have weight.

Steve can barely breathe.

How close had he gotten to death?

“Where’s my phone?” He asks, and Natasha wipes her eyes again and pulls it from a charger on the wall, handing it to him.

He goes to his texts. He has a bunch of messages from guys, mostly asking if he’s okay and updating him on the situation. He ignores them all.

**Bucky**

_Give me a call when you wake up_

If it’s six AM here, then it’s three AM in California, so he’s not going to be up anytime soon, but Steve kinda wants to cry, and only wants Bucky to see.

Fuck. Roofied?

 _Fuck_.

“Steve Rogers?” A sharp eyed woman enters the room, blonde curly hair and blue eyes looking like she’s seen hell before, and is prepared to see it again. “I’m a nurse practitioner. I’ve never thought sugarcoating was very good for anyone, so I’m going to tell you this up front: you are very, very lucky your friend got you help in time,” she says, standing by his bedside. “If your medical history is correct, as she has told us…”

Steve nods. Natasha knows everything, for this very reason.

“You would have died,” she says simply.

Steve feels frozen at her words, hanging in the air above them.

“We found Rohypnol in your body, a massive dose, and gave you dissolved charcoal to absorb it before it could continue to collect in your bloodstream. But you’re blood pressure was already dangerously low. You take beta-blockers?”

Steve swallows around a dry throat. “Yes.”

“Then you should know they lower your blood pressure. You drink?”

“Yes.”

“You should not even be _considering_ drinking while you are on that medication,” she snaps.

Steve looks into her stern expression, chin held high, and suddenly Steve sees Sarah Rogers staring down into his son’s eyes, the only person in the world more stubborn than him.

“We are the closest ER to that set of bars. I see a lot of kids your age, in that very bed, trying not to die from party drugs, from smoking, and fighting and what have you, and I tell them all the same thing. The ones that make it, at least. That _you_ need to decide if one night is more important than the rest of your life.” She says these words stiffly and coldly.

“Hey,” Natasha snaps, standing up. “He was fucking _drugged,_ what the hell was he supposed to do? No one has ever managed himself better than Steve, and I’m not gonna stand here and let you lecture him on something that wasn’t his fault!”

The NP doesn’t even look at Natasha, writing something into her prescription pad. “I don’t know if he was drugged, I just know that he came here, overdosed, _on_ drugs,” the nurse says.

“He wouldn’t have given himself _Rohypno l_ _!_ ” Natasha shouts.

“Save it for the police,” she says, and she rips off the prescription paper from the pad viciously, slaps it on the small table in the corner of the room, and starts writing another one. “You’re going to feel something akin to the worst hangover of your life for at least the next several days. You will get a doctor’s note excusing you from work. I’m prescribing you pain and anti-nausea medication, but you’re just going to have to tough this out.”

She slaps the second prescription down on the counter, then turns and leaves the room without another word.

Steve bites his lip, and looks down at his hands on top of the sheets.

“That _bitch,_ ” Natasha seethes.

“Nat…” Steve sighs.

“No, don’t ‘Nat’ me, she had no right of accusing you of doing this to yourself.”

Steve continues quietly. “She probably sees this, every weekend night. She’s probably jaded. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, you’re—”

“ _Natasha_ ,” Steve says forcefully.

“What?! What do you want me to do, _not_ be mad that she’s accusing the last man in the world who would be a drug addict that he’s responsible for his own drugging?”

Steve’s fingers are spidery and pale. They blur in his vision, and his stomach flips over again.

“There was a particular kind of patient that would find their way into Mom’s rooms, that made her come home crying,” Steve says quietly, as Natasha sits on the seat with her head in her hands. She lifts it up as he speaks. “Specifically, type II diabetics. Ones that would show up over and over, worse and worse. First, maybe it was kidney failure, the doctor putting them on dialysis with a warning that they needed to eat better and start to exercise. Then, maybe they’d need an amputation because they couldn’t keep their smoking in check, their blood pressure down. And she always hoped and hoped that they’d made a change but, like clockwork, they’d show up a few years later, dead from ketoacidosis. Years and years of that same pattern, that same kind of person. She never blamed them, but some nights she admitted to me that she wished she could just…” Steve sighs. “Just grab them by the shoulders, and shake them. Wake them up, make them look down and realize they were digging themselves into an early grave. Now Natasha,” Steve looks over at her, where she’s gazing back at him. “There’s a lot of patients that end up in a hospital, or dead, for arguably preventable reasons, but you know why diabetics hit her so hard?”

“Because she was type 1,” Natasha says quietly.

“Because she was type 1. And there was nothing she could do about it,” Steve says. “Nothing she could do about the stroke that took her in her sleep, except hope to God she could hold it off for as long as she could. And you know what? Maybe most of those patients _were_ trying their best to change. Maybe they couldn’t afford insulin, or healthy foods, or checking their blood sugar every day. Maybe they gave up on themselves, maybe they decided that that’s how they are willing to spend the rest of their lives. Maybe they were happy living like they lived. Just…I understand where a trauma NP can get jaded. I get why she looked at me, drunk and high at a bar, and only saw another idiot twenty year old that was going to die, because maybe that’s all she _can_ see.”

“But does that make it ok?” Natasha demands of him, voice firm and soft. “To accuse patients of what they’re not?”

“No,” Steve says. “And Mom never got to that point. But it always helps a little to understand what goes on, on the other side.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, shaking her head. “You always, always, are somehow able to see the good in everyone. Somehow. I don’t know how. But I need you to know that this wasn’t your fault.”

Steve smiles at the sheets. “The roofie? Yeah. But everyone has told me I shouldn’t be drinking on my meds. And I still do it anyway.”

“You have the right to live your life, Steve,” Natasha snaps. “Not just survive.”

But, and Steve realizes that now, that’s all his life is — survival. Medication, and side effects, and preventative care that doesn’t work, and needles, and a spine that’s bent to kingdom come. Steve doesn’t get to have a drink with his friends or enjoy himself, because the risks are far, far much greater for him.

Just then, an impatient looking administrator comes in with a stack of papers to sign, waiving his rights so that he doesn't sue the hospital or anyone in it, promising he’ll pay no matter what, and collecting his insurance information.

Finally, he’s being released, and a nurse with a kind face in blue scrubs helps ease him into a wheelchair. His legs are weak and numb, his stomach still rolling despite passing the charcoal, headache beginning to fight it’s way to full strength. Natasha walks next to him, holding all of his stuff, looking just as exhausted.

The nurse, as she wheels him out, leans down close to his ear. “I don’t share this with everyone, and neither should you, but I think you should know that Julia, your NP…One of her sons died four months ago at that gay bar on that street. Overdosed in the bathroom stall.”

Steve feels a violent shiver wrack his body.

“I overheard what you said to your friend,” the nurse says quietly. “Just wanted to let you know that both of you are right. That it’s not your fault, and what Julia says to you kids is not okay… but also she’s not a bad person. She’s just in pain, and doesn’t know what else to do.”

Steve’s eyes fill with tears, and he lets his head fall to his chest.

Armed with three bottles of electrolyte solution, a prescription for a massively high dose of ibuprofen, and the nurse’s quick reminder to follow up with his doctor, Steve’s and Natasha finally end up sharing a car home.

“Erik, Thor, and Rumlow are in jail,” Natasha says halfway through the ride.

“They in her precinct?” Steve asks, leaning back against the seats. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to do anything except for sleep for a week. He’s physically drained and emotionally ready to explode, and he doesn’t know how he’s even functioning anymore.

“No, but she knows someone over there. She says… she doesn’t think they’re going to be able to keep Rumlow for the date rape,” Natasha says. “No one saw him give it to you, no one can, or wants to, speak up about it. And apparently he has some sort of sway at that police department.”

“Of fucking course,” Steve mutters. He takes a sip of the syrupy electrolyte liquid and grimaces.

“Mom’s trying to see what she can do. She doesn’t think this is his first time doing something like this.”

“Tell Ms. Danvers thank you from me,” Steve says. “And that I’m okay.”

When they get back to the apartment, Natasha has to help him up the stairs and into bed. He feels like he wants to throw up the little he’s had to drink, and feels whatever painkiller he’s been given wearing off. Natasha leaves for a moment, but returns a minute after. In an uncharacteristic move, she kneels down by the bed and strokes her fingers through his hair. Steve blinks his eyes open blearily, and she smiles at him.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Steve,” Natasha says quietly.

“Gonna take more than that to bring the Captain down,” Steve winks, and Natasha huffs out a laugh.

Natasha holds up his daily pills, along with extra ibuprofen _and_ acetaminophen.

“Today’s gonna hurt, isn’t it,” Steve mutters.

Natasha nods; she’s no bullshitter. “There’s sleeping pills if you want,” she offers.

“Not yet,” Steve says. “Keep it on the desk.”

Steve swallows a thousand and one pills, then forces down an entire bottle of the electrolyte drink. He feels immediately worse, and Natasha puts a plastic bowl down next to his bed.

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly. Natasha nods, and runs her hands over his head one last time before disappearing from the room.

Steve uses his phone to stream something on the TV, and tries not to vomit.

Steve startles when his phone rings. He paws at it for a moment, then answers without looking.

“ _Steve_?” Bucky’s voice echoes through the receiver.

“Bucky, oh thank God.” Steve’s immediately rushed with relief at the sound of his voice, and he feels himself start to shake.

 _“Steve, what’s wrong?”_ His voice is like liquid balm over everything, and Steve’s horrified to find himself on the verge of tears.

“Last night, I was roofied,” he blurts. “At the bar.”

Silence.

“I passed out, and s-someone tried to take me, but two people caught him and stopped him. Natasha got me to the hospital.”

Steve hears Bucky take a deep breath, and let it out, like he was trying to keep it together. _“Are you okay?”_

“Yes. No. I’m—the meds I’m on, I’m already not supposed to be drinking on them. With the drug, I nearly…” Steve can’t get it out. “I was in really bad shape. I’m on bed rest for a week, I feel like shit.”

 _“Steve,”_ Bucky’s voice is slow and devastated, like he heard what Steve couldn’t say. “ _I am so, so sorry.”_

“It’s okay,” Steve says, but it’s not, because he’s crying now, tears rolling down his face.

_“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for it, I promise.”_

“I know, I know,” Steve says, wiping his face with his hand. “Thank you for saying that.”

_“Who did this to you? What is his name?”_

“Just some asshole I used to hook up with.”

 _“What. Is. His. Name.”_ Bucky speaks in a voice Steve’s never heard him use. Hard and demanding.

“Brock Rumlow,” Steve says right away.

Silence.

“Bucky?”

_“I’ll be there in six in a half hours.”_

“Bucky, you don’t have to cut your business trip short to see me,” Steve says.

_“I know.”_

“I don’t want for you to have to—”

 _“I am_ not _in the habit of doing things I don’t want to do!”_ Bucky says heatedly.

Steve swallows his response.

Another deep breath over the line. Then, much softer, Bucky continues. _“I need to see you, Steve. I need to be back there. Most of what we did here is already done, the rest can be handled by someone else. But I need to see you, Steve. I need to.”_

“Okay,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky sighs through the line. _“I didn’t mean to snap at you.”_

“I know. I’m not glass,” Steve says.

_“I know you’re not. I just can’t stand that… I need to be there, to know you’re okay.”_

Steve swallows over the line. “I’m at home. I’m going to take a sleeping pill, but Natasha will be here if I don’t answer. Just come in, wake me if you need to.”

_“Okay, Steve. I’m so sorry. I’ll see you soon.”_

“I miss you," Steve chokes out.

_“I miss you too, baby.”_

Steve hangs up, then rests his phone on the desk. He takes his sleeping pills and swallows more of the sickly sweet electrolyte solution, and waits for sleep to come.

“Oh _dushechka_ ,” Bucky breathes. “Oh sugar, come here, come here.”

Steve doesn’t open his eyes, but he hitches a sob when he hears Bucky’s voice, feels him crawl into bed with him, suit and all.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispers, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut, burying his head as far as he can into Bucky’s chest, and feels it, all of it, come up at once.

“I _hate_ my body,” Steve whispers. “I hate every pill, every needle, every inhaler it needs just to survive. I hate that every time something seems to be getting better, something else gets worse. I hate how _entitled_ I am,” Steve spits. “I should be grateful I can afford to stay alive, of all the sacrifices my mom gave me, but deep down, I hate it Bucky, I fucking _hate_ it.”

“Shhh… baby, shhh…” Bucky soothes, hand gently petting Steve’s hair.

“I should be grateful, and I’m not,” Steve’s voice hitches. “That anyone stays around me. I’m a burden. The number of times I need help doing basic things? I can’t carry shit upstairs without getting lightheaded. I can’t have a drink with my friends without my heart pounding in my ears. And the side effects, the fucking _side effects_ , Bucky, of all this medication? I’m tired all the time, I’m dizzy and nauseous and I can’t put on weight because I can’t _eat,_ and my back hurts, it always fucking hurts, and it doesn’t ever stop, it won’t ever _stop!_ ” Steve shouts, barely holding back the wave of tears, threatening to overcome him.

“And all it takes is one _fucking_ thing and everything falls apart. A fucking _roofie_ ? Jesus! One pill and I’m at the mercy of whoever was there to pick me up! If nobody caught me in time? Got me to the hospital? Bucky, I’d be dead. I was minutes from _dead._ My body is _weak._ And now everything, all my side effects from all my pills are coming back, because the charcoal and the Rohypnol fucked with the absorption, and I’m taking even _more_ pills, and it’s gonna take me weeks to recover, and I’m… I’m just— I’m falling apart. I’m losing it Bucky, I can’t anymore, I can’t _._ ” Steve’s voice cracks and he sobs in earnest, Bucky’s hand stroking against his scalp.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Baby, it’s okay. Let it out.”

Steve cries like a child, like he used to in his mother’s arms, when it was just him and her, against the world.

“Listen to me when I tell you this, Steve.” Bucky’s voice is just able to be heard over the sound of his sobs. “You are _not_ a burden. The people that are in your life love you, I— The reason _I_ want to be in your life, is because you bring so much good to the world. You are so dedicated and determined. So willing to see the good in people that aren’t all that good. You aren’t weak, you are _strong,_ you are so strong. I am so lucky to know you. Fuck baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wish that I could do more for you. I wish I knew what to _say_. I wish I had _been_ here. I want to give you the world, to make you see, but I don’t know how. But just know that I’m going to be with you, every step of the way, from now on. No matter what happens.”

Steve’s tears taper off, and lets himself be held, sniffling. “You already do so much for me,” Steve whispers, nose thick.

“I should have done more,” Bucky says. “I can do more.”

“This isn’t your fault either, Buck,” Steve takes care to say. “It’s Rumlow’s, for being a jealous bastard.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Steve squeezes him tightly, hoping to help Bucky work through his anger.

“Nat’s mom’s a cop. She’s working on it.”

“I’ll follow up with her, see what’s going on. You’re going to—I want you to stay with me,” he says. “I can take some time and work from my home office, but you have to be… I _want_ you to be near me. Please.”

Steve nods, feeling something sticky sweet in his throat. “‘m gonna throw up,” he says, and he turns to reach for the bowl on the floor.

Steve falls asleep again on the car ride over, curled up against the door as they drive, trying and failing not to feel guilty that he’s taking Bucky from his work just because his body doesn’t know how to bounce back. Bucky keeps a hand on him at all times though, glancing at him frequently, like he’s afraid that if he lets go he’d lose Steve all over again. It helps a little. To feel like Bucky needs him. Like he… like he loves him.

Bucky tucks him into his bed, laying him down on the sheets, and pulling the covers up to his shoulders, smoothing them out at his shoulders. Steve looks up at him, his face twisted in devastation and concern, anger simmering somewhere under the surface. He strokes Steve’s cheek, and Steve tries to enjoy the idea of love, of being loved and loving in return. He really does try.

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly.

“I’ll always be there for you, Steve,” Bucky promises, smiling almost sadly. “Even when you’ve had enough of me.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t think I could ever have enough of you, Bucky,”

Bucky’s smile begins to tremble on his face. “All I can do is hope that’s true. Sleep, Steve. I’ll take care of everything.”

Steve doesn’t like the way the conversation is ending, but he can’t find the energy to stay awake, not when he’s so surrounded on all sides by the essence of Bucky, when his mind screams safe and his body screams warm. He falls asleep.

When he comes to, he’s alone, swimming in Bucky’s bed. He feels disgusting, sweat tacked to his skin, stomach so empty it’s beginning to cramp. He can’t help the moan that escapes his dry throat, raspy and weak.

A gentle hand rests on his forehead, and someone, a female, makes a gentle hushing noise, and for a moment Steve believes he’s waking up to find his mother over his head, telling him it’s time to rest.

“Steve,” a voice, not Sarah Rogers, says, and Steve’s turns sluggishly to the side, and he manages to break out a smile as he sees the woman sitting in the chair next to Bucky’s long bed.

“Mrs. Barnes?”

Mrs. Barnes nods, her curly hair pulled behind her head, her eyes wet with tears. She’s smiling nonetheless, a firm hand stroking through the wet strands of his hair. Steve hiccups, fights the tears that threaten to overwhelm him again. Seems he can’t stop it with the embarrassing outbursts today.

Mrs. Barnes points towards a drink on the nightstand, hand shaking in the air. “ _Bea,”_ she says, and Steve props himself up so he can take needy sips from the bottle.

As he drinks, Steve can hear Bucky speaking snappishly, and he enters the room on the end of the call, nearly snarling as he says, “ _U tebya cho ruki iz jopi rastut?_ Handle it!”

“ _Zakroy svoy rot!_ ” Mrs. Barnes stands up and slaps Bucky on the arm, and Bucky immediately gives her his most sheepish expression.

“Sorry Ma,” he says. She smacks his shoulder again, a light touch that he probably wouldn’t even feel in a minute, but it doesn’t stop Bucky from whining, wincing back from the hit and pouting at her.

“ _De ce, mamă?!_ " Bucky cries out, like he's just been fatally wounded.

Mrs. Barnes rolls her eyes and looks back at Steve. “Dramatic boy,” she says, and Steve forces out a laugh.

She moves past Bucky to leave, and Steve catches the look of love the two share, and Steve remembers what it was like to have that kind of back and forth with someone.

Fuck, he misses his mom.

“Hey,” Bucky says, turning his attention back to Steve. He sits in the vacated chair by the bed and scoots it as close as he can to Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says quietly. He’s still burned out from his earlier explosion of emotion, and finds, for the first time, that he doesn’t know how to act around the man. Things were so good a few days ago, so easy, but Steve had to go and ruin it and get himself roofied.

“I’m going to be working from home, but I’ll still be in and out to see you when I can, okay?”

“Okay Bucky,” Steve says. He feels guilty, he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be taking up his boyfriend’s space like this.

“…Are you alright, baby?”

Steve nods. “Just tired.”

Bucky hugs Steve close to him, pressing his smaller body against his own like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Steve buries his head into Bucky’s shoulder in return.

Mrs. Barnes returns with food and leaves them both to eat in Bucky’s bed. Steve manages a quarter of it before he feels to sick to move, and puts the rest of it up on the nightstand.

After, Bucky walks him to the bathroom, a short walk that seems to take ages. In the shower, the water is too hot against his skin, so he blasts it cold until he feels like he’s not going to overheat. Bucky doesn’t flinch at the temperature change, just takes his time washing him, his hair, his skin, everything. Before Steve would bask at the attention, but now all Steve can think about is how much time it must be taking Bucky to do this to him, how many hours Bucky lost from work flying back to make sure he’s okay.

A normal person who had been roofied probably would have had a day or two of bad stomach and headaches. A normal person would be able to take care of themselves, at least during that time. A normal person would be up and ready to go after a couple days, probably three at most. But not Steve.

Steve ends up taking close to a week to get back on any type of normal schedule. A week of half eaten meals and walks to the bathroom and sleeping the day away and taking up space in Bucky’s bed as he forces him to work from home. Steve can feel himself slipping away, and sees Bucky giving him more and more space, and he wants to yell at him for being so accommodating, for acting like ever hour Steve is here, he’s not burdening Bucky more with his presence.

And Steve can’t help but wonder if this is what his father saw in Sarah, and then saw in him. Wonders if this is what caused his father to pack up and leave in the middle of the night. Wonders when Bucky’s going to decide he’s too much work to love.


	10. The Wrath of The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready?

#  **Chapter 10: The Wrath of the Devil**

Steve sits in Bucky’s car, watching Brooklyn Heights go by, the wind gone from his sails.

Bucky sits next to him, looking at him, unsure. “Steve, you know you don’t have to leave, right?” He says. Steve can tell he wants to reach for him, can see his fingers crawling their way over the seat to meet.

Steve looks at Bucky and opens his mouth, but they’re both interrupted by Bucky’s phone ringing. Bucky swears in Russian and pulls it from his pocket, reading the caller ID before silencing it.

Steve sighs. “I’m cutting into your work, Buck.” Moreover, if Steve has to see one more moment where Bucky and his mom interact, he might just break down in tears.

“You aren’t a burden on me Steve,” Bucky says, cutting right to the chase.

“I can get by on my own,” Steve says, trying to end the conversation.

“The thing is,” Bucky says, resting a hand on Steve’s knee. “You don’t have to.”

Steve stares at the hand on his knee. The phone rings again.

“You should take that,” Steve quietly.

“I can let it ring,” Bucky says. “I just… feel like you’ve been slipping away from me. I feel like you put the world on your shoulders sometimes. But you don’t have to bear that burden alone.”

Steve does turn at that, and looks into Bucky’s eyes to see if he truly means that. “I think I need a little time to process, that’s all,” he admits. “But I’m not… I’ll be back, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “But just know I will always be there for you, Steve. Always.”

Steve shares a kiss with him, light and chaste. “Okay.”

“I’m fine, Nat,” Steve says as he walks into his apartment.

“You’re panting,” Natasha says, carrying his bag for him.

“I always breathe heavy up the stairs.” Steve doesn’t have as much heart in his smile as usual. He can feel it, she can see it.

“It’s not just that, Steve. You seem a little… burnt out,” Natasha responds.

Steve snorts. “Do I.”

“You’ve been through a lot Steve, I don’t think anyone’s going to blame you for taking a little more time off,” Natasha says as they walk to his tiny room.

“You sound like Bucky,” Steve mutters.

“He has a point.”

Steve sighs. “I’ll be back to work Monday,” Steve says. “Give myself the weekend. I’m calling a staff meeting anyway, going to make some changes. Nothing big.”

Steve sits on the bed, tired for so many reasons.

“What kind of changes?” Natasha asks, dropping his bag on his tiny desk.

“Nothing you’re going to dislike,” Steve says. “If you don’t mind,” he adds shortly. “I think I might turn in.”

Natasha nods and lets him be, and Steve spends a long time staring at his shoes. He hasn’t felt this weak before in a very long time, and he hasn’t felt this numb since he left his mother’s funeral.

Boy, is he gonna have a good one for his therapist next week.

Steve finds out on Sunday that Clint was a train wreck at the coffee shop. He had somehow managed to burn himself on the espresso machine three times, despite that fact he was mainly working the waiter’s job, and he nearly caused a lawsuit when someone reported a bug in their coffee and he responded with, “Just consider it a protein shot.”

But still, he had tried, and Steve was grateful for that. He told him so when Clint came over with Thai food that night, and Steve dug in gratefully, his stomach finally working again. He probably has to have another checkup with Dr. Cho about what happened, but if he has to deal with another hospital right now, he may just lose it again.

He really needs that therapy appointment, soon.

“Don’t worry about it, Steve,” Clint says. “Now we all know where my weaknesses, few as they are, lie.”

“Few?” Sam snorts, and Clint immediately launches into an argument with him, while Natasha pours a little bit of brandy in her drink, and Steve feels like he’s home.

Monday rolls around as it always does, much, much too fast. Still, Steve doesn’t come in until half an hour before close, where he's called a staff meeting for all the part-time and rotational employees. It’s just Darcy, Wanda, Pietro, and Peter. He was going to ease them into the story, but Darcy and Wanda must have heard or saw what happened that night, and it was clear that they had told the others.

“I just wanted to thank you all for picking up the slack while I recovered,” Steve says, ignoring the way Wanda looks like she wants to wrap him in a hug. “You guys really went the extra mile, especially with Clint as my terrible replacement, so I want you to know that there’s a bit of bonus that’s going to go in all your checks,” Steve says. He pauses for a bit of cheering on that one.

“There’s also going to be a few changes. For one, I’m going to be limiting my time on the floor. Instead I’ll be focusing on the company’s sheets. We’ve been cutting some good profits for a while now, so I’m going to start looking into new revenue sources, such as selling beans and blends, maybe even franchise.”

There were a few murmurs at that, but they seemed mostly positive.

“Guys got any questions?”

Peter raises his hand first. “It’s totally your decision, but how are you going to manage hours now that you’re off the schedule?”

“I’m going to hire two more people,” Steve says. “Some full timers to pick up my slack. It’s about time I start acting like a boss and not doing any real work,” Steve grins. “Anything else?”

“Are you okay? Do you feel any pain at all, Cap?” Darcy asks, worry etched in the lines of her face.

Steve smiles, but it feels like the kind of smile he’d give a customer behind the register, not the kind of smile he’d give a friend.

“I’m fine, Darcy.” Steve says. Every day of his life is pain, what’s a little more? “Just fine.”

“But, wait. The police haven’t contacted you, despite the fact numerous people saw Rumlow carry you out of that bar?” Peter asks him. “And like, Rohypnol is a pretty big thing to get drugged with, like, I’m shocked they didn’t interview you right there at the hospital.”

Steve shifts lightly. “I don’t want to get too much into it, but, according to Detective Danvers, he’s probably not going to serve any time.” Also, Steve’s pretty sure Julia the NP pegged him as a partygoer, not a victim. She didn’t seem keen on urging along an investigation.

“That’s bullshit!” Wanda cries. “Come on, you’re Cap! No one fights for justice better than you.”

“I just want things to go back to normal,” Steve says simply. The words ring hollow; how will he ever think of anything as normal again?

“Still. No one asked for your side of the story, no one interviewed you because you were slipped a date rape drug? No one _called_ you?” Peter frowns.

“Well, no, actually,” Steve says frowning.

“You should look into it yourself,” Darcy says firmly. “I mean, there’s a way these things are supposed to work, like, they definitely should have at least talked to you in the hospital. You know, got witness statements? Filed a report?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, determined. “I will. You guys close up, okay? I think I’ll head down there now.”

Steve finds himself down at the station in the precinct he knows that Thor and Erik were held in. It’s strange, he’s never spent much time in a police department before. It’s not quite what he imagines from TV, but still has that same vibe of constant work being done.

He waits in a line behind a frazzled woman bailing her daughter out of jail. When he gets to the front, he asks for the clerk to look up any information regarding the attack. But to his surprise, the clerk was unable to find anything in the system at all. No police report, no arrest, not even Rumlow’s _name._

She asked if he wanted to file a report, but Steve shook his head and left the building in a huff. How dare Rumlow try and cover this shit up? Maybe a report wasn’t filed, but he was _arrested_ and _detained_ here, how the hell do they not even know his name?

Fuck him. Steve’s at the end of his rope, and apathy has turned itself into fury.

Steve has no plan when he gets on the subway towards Rumlow’s place. The only thing he sees now is red. Rumlow tried to drug him, to _take_ him, because he couldn’t handle a simple rejection. He’s scared him now, fucked things up with Bucky because Steve’s doubts had come spiralling back. He nearly _killed_ him, and now he’s trying to wipe it all away like Steve’s life is worth nothing.

But Steve _is_ worth something, broken and battered as he is, and if the police aren’t going to do anything, he’ll just have to.

Steve met Rumlow shortly after his mother died, and he had everything Steve hated, and needed, all at once. It was rough but forgettable sex, Brock having a need to hurt his partners and Steve desiring to be hurt. It didn’t take long to realize Brock was a mess: a gay man insecure in his own sexuality, he always went after twinks and femmes and degraded them for liking men. He was pushy, but never to the point of assault Steve thought, though clearly he’d read the wrong.

Steve had been at his house a _lot_ way back when, and can trace the steps to it with ease. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Doesn’t have a plan, or backup, or a way to defend himself. Rumlow is _clearly_ a dangerous man, but Steve doesn’t care anymore.

Outside Rumlow’s building, Steve buzzes every apartment until someone rings him up. He starts up the steps to Rumlow’s second floor place, footsteps heavy and pulse pounding.

“Brock!” Steve shouts, banging on his door. “Brock, I know you’re in there! Brock!”

The door behind him jerks open, and a thin haired woman in a robe with a cigarette dangling from her lips meets his eyes. “Kid, would you shut up? It’s nearly ten.”

Steve jolts. Ten? He wasn’t even aware so much time had passed.

“You know the guy who lives here?” He asks her.

“Who’s asking?” She says in a dirty accent.

“I am,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Who are you?”

“A concerned citizen,” she deadpans.

“You know him?”

She snorts. “Just that he’s loud, is a shitty neighbor, and likes bringing home boys that look, well. That look like you.” She squints. “You a jealous lover?”

“No, I want to beat him to hell and back,” Steve growls.

She snorts. “Lost out on that opportunity.”

Steve squints. “What do you mean?”

“Man’s dead.”

Steve freezes. “He’s… dead?”

“Said what I said, didn’t I? Brock Rumlow is dead. Pushing daisies.”

Steve swallows hard. “How?” He breathes. “When? What happened?”

“Hmph.” She gives him a judging look up and down, then pulls the cigarette from her mouth. “Listen kid—”

“Not a kid.”

“Everyone’s a kid to me. Might not want to be poking around so much, you look like a good guy,” the woman says. “But Rumlow’s bad news. Got involved with a bad crowd, gangs, drugs. Rumor has it his death had something to do with Bratva, which isn’t a surprise given that they beat him to shit years ago.”

“Bratva?”

She gives him an exasperated look, like she’s dealing with an idiot. “The Russian mafia. Got on the wrong side of ‘em. The _very_ wrong side of ‘em. You best leave whatever lovers spat you got behind.”

With that, she shuts her door, leaving Steve in the hallway behind.

Dead. Rumlow is dead. Killed by… Killed… by…

It takes him a minute, but finally, he turns, and walks down the stairs, shell shocked.

It’s not surprising that Rumlow was in a gang. It made sense, how he was able to duck his charges. And to think that some rival gang or mob group got to him, wasn’t too unbelievable.

But that’s not what makes Steve so numb. Even the night air and the stars in the sky aren’t enough to snap him out of it. He probably runs into five separate people before his mind kick starts again, and he slowly works his way back home.

The Russian mafia has been coming up way too often in Steve’s life.

Clint’s whole thing was that the Russian mob was shaking down his apartment. And, also, what happened with that? Clint said that Bucky had helped him to handle it, but… what did they even do? Steve watches the news almost every day, and Steve heard nothing about the crackdown at all.

Natasha, she’s Russian. Not mafia, but… she grew up in that group home around other immigrant children. If Bucky’s family ran it, it’s likely she was exposed to at least some sort of seedy business. The way she describes her home, it was essentially foster care for immigrants, owned by the Barnes. A Russian family.

Bucky knows Russian. He does all his work in Russian. His _family_ speaks Russian. Rumlow was killed by the Russian mob, right after slipping Steve, Bucky’s boyfriend, a roofie. Bucky cleared up Clint’s Russian mob problem. Bucky owns the place that Natasha got adopted from.

Is Bucky…?

But Natasha _vouched_ for Bucky, said he was a good man.

Unless she knew, and Bucky _made_ her do that. Maybe somehow Natasha owed him a favor, and he’s using it to keep her quiet—

That’s ridiculous. Right? Except, when they first met, Bucky decided to offer him a favor…

That’s not—this isn’t _Bucky_ though. This isn’t the sweet man that buys Steve chocolates and takes him to dinner and massages his back when the pain gets bad and tells him that he wishes he could do more for him.

But he’s also a rich man. The son of the CEO of a company Steve doesn’t even know the name of.

Who works odd hours, and sometimes is covered in bruises, and constantly has problems with employees and shipments…

Steve keeps walking down the street.

**Bucky**

_Come over._

“Hey baby, how are you?” Bucky says brightly, entering Steve’s apartment. He makes to walk to Steve, who is sitting at the kitchen table, but slows at Steve’s expression.

The cool metal of the house revolver sweats in his hand, hidden under the table.

“Brock Rumlow is dead,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky blinks. “Shit, that’s… well I can’t say I’m too upset about that to be honest,” he shrugs.

“They said he was killed by the Bratva. After, you know, he drugged me.”

Bucky hums. “That seems a bit outlandish.”

Steve feels a pang of anger rocket through his body. “I tried to go to the police, but they told me they had no record of the assault at all,” Steve says. “ _Why_ Bucky?”

“Steve.” Bucky seems to catch onto Steve’s mood. “What are you saying?”

Steve’s voice begins to rise. “Clint’s building was being shaken down by mobsters. _Russian_ mobsters. Now it’s not. Natasha was a Russian immigrant with no family, adopted from your ‘halfway house’ You do your work in Russian. You—You talk about your _family. The_ family. You have a fucking _gun_ with your family’s sigil engraved on it. You know every person in Little Odessa.”

Bucky closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Please Steve. Not like this,” he whispers.

Steve shakes his head. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” Steve asks.

“I’m Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says. “And I just wanted to date you. We clicked, and—”

“Seriously? Enough with the horseshit Bucky, I just got fucking drugged and now I’m finding out that my boyfriend is lying to me—"

“I never actually lied to you—”

“ _Lies_ of _omission_ are _still lies!_ ” Steve shouts, voice so loud it aches in his lungs.

The room falls silent. Behind him, Steve can hear the sound of Sam’s door creaking open.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispers.

“Who. _Are._ You.”

“I’m the son of the head of the old Zola family,” Bucky says. “Now Barnes.”

Steve freezes. The son of the head of the fucking _Zolas._

All of that money he has. His scary as shit father. The talk of him taking over one day. He’s been dating—he’s been _dating—_

“Oh my God,” Steve breathes, backing away from the table until his back hits the wall.

“Steve,” Bucky says firmly. “I never meant for you to find out this way. And I certainly never meant for you to get hurt. I was going to tell you, but things progressed so fast between us. And it was going well! It’s just hard to date for me because—”

“Was any of this real?” Steve asks, barely listening to Bucky’s words. “Are you, were you trying to run something? To get something from me, my friends? Fuck, Natasha—"

“No of course not, Steve. Yes this is real, this is the realest thing in my life right now.” Bucky pleads with him. “We’re not bad people! We _help_ people when they need it. Where the government stops, we pick up the slack. If you give me a second, I can show you.” He steps forward, but Steve raises the gun, and Bucky stops cold.

“What were you hoping to get out of this, huh?” Steve says, blind with rage. “Supposed to-to what, come in here and get a taste of the clean life? Were you just going to keep me in the dark forever?” And that’s the worst part of it all, that somewhere along the lines, Steve started thinking about him and Bucky and _forever_.

“No, I—”

“Is it _fun_ for you to find partners that don’t know what you do? You like manipulating them and their friends? You _knew_ I wouldn’t stand for this, for your criminal lifestyle, and yet you continued to lie! What were you trying to do, _convince_ me you weren’t as bad as you are? All that shit about playing Robinhood, and Al Capone, and the _good_ that you do?”

“Steve, it’s not—”

“Or, better yet, maybe you saw me, sick and broken, and thought, hm, here’s something I can fix! You talk so much about my fucking spine, a bet you get off on the idea that with a snap of your fingers you could just pay for it all, free me of all my problems, and I’d be so fucking grateful that I’d never leave you and sit on your floor and suck your dick for the rest of your fucking life.”

“I wanted to help, but never for that reason, Steve, and I would never ask—"

“I can handle myself, Bucky!” Steve shouts. “No one else seems to believe it, but I can! I can walk up fucking stairs, I can go to a doctor and get shots and pills, I don’t need you. I don’t _need_ you! I’ve been alone for so long, I’ve been through the Goddamn wringer time and time again, but I have survived it! I don’t need you Bucky.”

“I know that, Steve,” Bucky whispers.

“And to _think_ I opened up to you, and you’ve just been playing this game, this whole fucking time, and now I find out—I should have you fucking arrested, except—” Steve laughs harshly. “You’ve got the NYPD on your payroll! That’s why Rumlow had no records, that’s why you knew Danvers would handle things. Clint was right, it _is_ useful to have a favor, isn’t it?”

“It was never a game,” Bucky says evenly. “Not with you.”

“Fuck off,” Steve grits his teeth, because the last thing he wants to do is hear this. He slams the gun down on the counter. “Okay? Fuck off. I don’t want to see you ever again. Do not come near me, my friends, or my family. Do you understand?”

“Steve, please, just let me—”

“DO YOU!?!” Steve screams, his voice cracking with fury, and fear, and anger, all at once.

Bucky flinches back. Closes his eyes. Nods.

“Yes. Yes, Steve, I understand.”

“Good,” Steve bites out. “Go. Now.”

Bucky nods once, and goes.

Steve watches with blank eyes and shaking hands as the door shuts behind him.

“Steve?”

Steve turns slowly to look at Sam. “You knew, all three of you guys did.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I’m sorry, we were—at first we were scared-”

“I’ve gotta,” Steve’s voice is nothing but a whisper. “Can you open tomorrow?”

“Ste—”

“Can you?”

Sam swallows. “Yeah, Steve.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and he picks up the gun and unloads it, bullets hot in his hands. “Okay,” he says again as he locks it back in the safe in the closet. “Goodnight, Sam,” he says, and he walks into his bedroom and closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _runs even faster_


	11. The Case for The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start to come together, finally!
> 
> Warning: Steve's medical issues take a turn
> 
> Enjoy!

#  **Chapter 11: A Case for the Devil**

“Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem well, friend.”

Steve sighs and rolls over in the king sized bed to look at Thor, who was tying the rope of his robe. His brows were creased in concern.

“I’m fine,” Steve says, slipping off Thor's bed to stand up on his own, feet cold against the wooden floor. His back cracks as he stretches his arms up wide, working out the stiffness from his spine.

“You want coffee?” Thor asks around a yawn as Steve goes searching for his clothes. “It is your shop’s roast, actually. Thanks for those beans, they are delicious.”

Steve turns his head and smiles at him, but it doesn’t seem to have the usual effect on Thor. If anything, his eyes narrow in further concern.

“No thanks, and no problem, we’ll be selling them soon enough. Just make sure not to share your friends and family discount.” He reaches in his duffle for his toothbrush, making moves towards the bathroom.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Thor salutes. “You know where everything is, I’ll be downstairs.”

Steve jumps into Thor’s shower, nicer than his but not as nice as Bucky’s… used to be. He cleans himself efficiently, grimacing as he encounters some dried semen on the inside of his thighs.

Steve knows he should have used a condom. Thor offers every time, because Thor’s not what anyone would call monogamous, but Steve says no. He’s on PrEP, and… it doesn’t matter. He knows the risk. It's fine, it's all fine.  


His therapist, who had had a field day three days ago when he told him about everything that happened, would probably call this ‘self-destructive behavior'.

Thor offers him a piece of toast on his way out, and Steve takes it with a thank you, heading towards the subway.

Steve enters the shop at nine, his new call time, and is immediately approached by Wade, a new hire in charge of supervising this shift. He was energetic, if a little strange. During his interview, he explained how happy he was to finally be part of the team, even if the team for some reason existed as a bunch of baristas in a coffee shop instead of superheroes in a tower.

Steve blinked at that, then decided that meant he ‘works well in teams,’ and signed him on as a supervisor.

“Hey Cap!” He chirps as Steve heads to the back. “Uh, so, I’m not one to tattle, but you told me to tell you, so the kid? Peter? He was late again this morning.”

Steve sighs. That was the third time this week.

“But you know, I feel like he has a lot going on, so maybe you should give him a little slack.”

“We’ve all got a lot going on,” Steve says simply. “When there’s a lull, have him come into my office.”

Wade hesitates for a moment, then nods as Steve heads to the back.  


Steve collapses into his desk chair with a sigh and starts to work on what he needs to sell his coffee. He probably needs to hire someone to build him a website…

Peter enters a few hours later, and Steve waves him in and tells him to sit down.

“Peter, I know you have a very long way to come here from,” Steve says. “But if you are going to be doing the bakery run in the morning, you  _ have _ to be here before opening time. I can’t have another day of you stocking and selling at the same time, not during rush hour.”

Peter looks miserable, head bowed in front of Steve’s desk, and Steve immediately feels bad. “I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve got all these summer projects I’m doing, because most high schoolers have some sort of internship at this time, especially if they want to be engineers, but I couldn’t afford to go anywhere—”

“Just get here on time or exchange your shift Peter. I don’t want to have this conversation again,” he cuts him off coldly. He tries for another smile to soften the blow, but it doesn’t come out right, as Peter looks even sadder.

“Sorry Steve,” Peter mutters, and he ducks out of Steve’s office in a hurry. Steve frowns after him. He shouldn’t have been so mean, but they needed to have this talk for a while now. It’s not like Steve would ever fire him. Maybe move him to a different shift, or put him on weekends.

Steve stands from his chair and makes a face as his legs shake a little in weakness. He walks a circle around the office, trying to get some feeling back into them. He’s secretly glad he’s been able to spend time off the floor now and focus on expansion. He’s always wanted to set up a Brooklyn shop, somewhere close to home. Away from Brooklyn Heights, or Little Odessa.

Since the incident, it’s easy to avoid everyone—Sam has finals, Natasha’s asleep, Clint is…Clint. So when he comes home, he can usually steal something from the fridge and spend the rest of the night in his room. So he at least can carry that relief with him as he walks home.

Honestly, he can’t stand the embarrassment of it all: embarrassment for bringing someone like that into his home and demanding that his friends get to know him, when they all knew who he was and what he was capable of. The embarrassment of being so completely _wrong_ about someone, about giving them the benefit of the doubt—how many times had Steve assured Bucky he was a good man? Doing a good thing? He essentially enabled the man—

But the worst thing? The worst is how much he truly misses him. Feels his emptiness in everything from car rides, to his bed, even to eating pieces of chocolate. He’s embarrassed that he’s  torn. B ecause despite learning about Bucky’s organized crime background, the shape of who he truly is has not changed in Steve’s eyes. All he can see is the Bucky he knows, the one that holds him as he cried and listens to him when he dreams and works too hard and smiles so sweet, and was elegant, and eager and—

Steve cuts this line of thought off as he enters his apartment.

“Steve?”

Clint’s home then. Steve makes a noise to acknowledge that he heard him, but heads straight to the fridge for something to eat for dinner in his room. He has a painting he wants to destroy.

“Hey, uh. How have you been?”

Steve closes the door to see him sitting at the kitchen table and gives him a look.

“Well. Okay,” Clint says. “Look. We gotta talk.”

“Oh boy,” Steve mutters, but he acquiesces, sitting down at the kitchen table. He supposes he can’t avoid him forever.

“First, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything,” Clint says. “But like, it’s funny, because I’ve wanted to have this conversation about who he really is for the longest time, but now that it’s here, all I want to do is tell you that he’s not a bad guy.”

“ _ You’re _ sorry?” Steve blinks in surprise. “I’m the one who brought him in here, and you’re the one—you have no need to be sorry Clint. I put all of us in danger.”

“Not, uh, quite. So… remember when he made us all dinner?” Clint asks. “And you told him about the tracksuit mafia guys?”

Steve blood runs cold. He’s an idiot for bringing that up, what if he did something that made everything worse for Clint—

“Apparently those guys didn’t work for him,” Clint says. “ _ Apparently,  _ would you believe, there’s not just one Russian crime family. There used to be one, but now there’s like, one main one, and a bunch of random guys running around trying to pretend they’re in charge.”

Steve frowns, wondering why the hell Clint was bringing this up. “Bucky told you this?”

“No,” Clint says, refusing to elaborate. “But what Bucky  _ did _ tell me, was the reason why they broke apart first,” Clint says. “It’s because of Bucky’s mom.”

Steve blinks at him. “His… mom? Clint, where are you going with this?”

“Bear with me, it’s worth it. So, okay, a long time ago, Winnifred Zola was a high up daughter in the family. She and her kids spent almost all of their time in the business of smuggling people into the country,” Clint says. “They moved refugees from Russia, Romania, Kosovo, and a bunch of other places to the US, forged papers and everything. Families had the option to pay the family back, or to work for the family for a term of service.”

Steve leans in. “Like… Natasha?” Despite everything, Steve can't help to be eager for even a shred of information about Bucky and his family. Objectively, if his heart wasn't so badly broken, it would be fascinating to learn about.  


“Yeah, exactly,” Clint says. “So, anyway, one day, Bucky realized he was gay. In a Russian crime family, how do you think that went?”

“Not well,” Steve predicts.

“Nope. The Zolas have a zero-tolerance policy for homosexuality, so the kingpin tried to have him killed.  _ But, _ the Barnes were high level guys, and had a lot of supporters because they were generally nice people, if a little scary. So, after the hit went out, they and their supporters more or less rebelled against Zola. Everything got re-e-eally complicated, the Zola family shattered, and now the Russian mafia is basically anarchy.”

Steve leans backwards, attempting to process the information Clint's throwing at him. Clint for his part is lounging in the chair as usual, like he's just talking about the weather. “Wait, wait, wait. You're telling me that Mrs. _Barnes_ is the one with the Mafia ties? Not George? And she tried to stage a  _ rebellion?  _ Because Bucky was gay? How-How do you know all this?”

“Well... there’s other shit too. Apparently the head guy was an asshole, which is saying a lot considering that he basically _ran_ the underground," Clint continues. "Pushing drugs on kids, beating hookers, extorting small businesses, and on and on."  


Steve stares at him, eyes widening. “Like your landlords.”

Clint slaps the table. “Like my landlords.  The Barnes’ wanted to get rid of all that, you see, to make the mafia a business about helping people that needed help, not hurting people for no good reason. Ethical crime, you know. Vigilante shit, but with less... Batman.”

“So… Bucky killed your landlords,” Steve says slowly, processing the fact that that was the same man who made them all dinner in an apron and jeans.

“And he gave me the deed to the building,” Clint adds.

Steve shakes his head. “He—Okay. Wait, so you work for him now?”  


“Yeah. It’s better than what I used to do,” Clint shrugs.

“Which was?”  Steve feels like he's still a step behind with all this new information, filling some gaps but introducing even more.  


Clint acts like Steve didn’t ask a question. “I put the rent at the lowest I could manage, hired maintenance guys to actually work on the apartments, and kicked out all the tracksuit guys’ friends. It’s actually a pretty chill job.”

Steve shakes his head again; it’s never that simple. “For what? What did he want for it?” That’s the kind of deal the mafia makes, all good, for something bad.

Clint smiles in a way that implies that he knows what he means. “They still had immigrants coming in,” Clint says. “So some stay there.”

Steve squeezes his lips together. "That's it?"  


"That's it.  So yeah, Bucky’s good people,” Clint says.

“But he  _ killed _ people,” Steve says harshly. “That’s not very good.”

“They were mafia, too. They knew what they were getting into.” Clint slumps in his chair, fingertips drumming against the surface of the wooden table. “They were bad dudes. Kicked dogs and shit. Hurt people. Just wanted money. Not like Bucky Barnes.”

“He killed Rumlow,” Steve says weakly.

“So? You think a guy like that didn’t deserve it? He was probably not going to see a day in jail. Hell, I'd've done it.”

“Clint,” Steve says quietly, not understanding what Clint is trying to do here. “He… I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to get in bed with him again. Hell, I’m not even asking you to forgive him. Trust me, lying sucks balls. But you should at least know who he really is.”

Steve stares down at the table for a moment, thinking. Bucky’s past is a lot more complicated then he could have begun to imagine, and so, probably is Clint's. Bucky's mother, fighting the mob, her own family, for her husband and children, fighting them to try and do something right in a world of wrong. He never thought of organized crime as having _morality_ before. He's never really thought of it at all.  


“I was really worried for you at first, Steve,” Clint says quietly, breaking the long silence that grew as Steve processed.  


“You kept being hostile towards him,” Steve murmurs, all of Clint’s behaviors making sense. “All this time I thought you were just being an ass, you were trying to help me.”

“In your defense, I usually am an ass.” Clint snorts. “But yeah, I was pretty pissed for a minute that he’d tried to drag you down into his world. I thought he was one of them. But he’s not. Sorta. He's... doing crime right."

Steve snorts incredulously. “You hear how ridiculous that sounds? 'Doing crime right?'”

Clint shrugs. “How many times do businesses do things illegally and get away with it with money? Hell, how many times do they do it all  _ legally  _ because they have some people in Congress willing to pass them a law to let them? Stark Industries didn’t even pay _taxes_ , and they sell weapons.”

“ _ Sold _ weapons,” Steve corrects. “They don’t do that now.”

Clint snorts. “Like that's going to work, you know they bribed those therapists to say Stark’s out of his mind. And they’re gonna keep selling weapons to kill people while they're all wrapped up in lawsuits and litigation. This is how the world works, Steve. You know it, I know it, Bucky knows it. Barnes are the guys to go to when you need to... tip the scales back.”

Steve sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Clint, this isn’t helping anything. I mean, you see why this all sounds insane, right?”

Clint gets up. “I know. I’m sorry. But there’s been too many secrets, and you deserve to know the truth. Or... at least know that that instinct you have about people being good? It’s not wrong. Not with him. Maybe with me, but jury's out on that. So stop beating yourself up about that, it's your best quality and you shouldn't lose it.”

Clint leaves the house after that, but Steve still sits at the kitchen table, pissed.

Because yeah, he knows the world isn’t fair. Systems fail. Protection loosens. Bad guys win. 

But, if such a thing as a superhero were to exist in this world, it’s not too far-fetched to think they’d look like Winnifred Barnes.

That night, Steve barely sleeps, staring at the ceiling. His bed feels empty, despite being so small.

Steve knows he’s good at reading people. Not, the details, obviously, he’s missed a hell of a lot of shit about Bucky, but he’s good at reading intentions. At looking at an entire person and determining where their weak points lie, where their heart is.

And despite everything, he knows Bucky’s heart is huge.

Clint’s words bounce around his head. The history behind his family, Steve has to admit, is fascinating. Though Steve believes it’s true, he’s wary of his own judgment these days. He’s a sucker for a good ending, for a flicker of light in even the darkest of people. He wants so hard to believe that Bucky is an honest person, the one rescues children and loves his family and kills mobsters that try to take advantage of the unfortunate. One that truly isn’t in it for the money, but for the fairness of it all.

An ethical criminal. Is there such a thing?

Steve flips to his other side.

Bucky kills people. But just people that deserve it? Does  _ anyone _ deserve to die?

His mom didn’t. His dad…

His grandparents were soldiers, and they killed Nazi’s. That’s easy.

Steve flips over to the other side and imagines, for a moment, that Bucky was the perfect man, the one that filled in the cracks in the law system, that got refugees in when the government did not want them and settled them. That protected the innocent and killed the ones to hurt him.

But fantasies are just that—fantasies. Just dreams, like one day waking up with a straight spine and two working lungs, or a heart that knows how to beat right.

Steve sleeps fitfully that night, unable to stop tossing and turning.

When he wakes up, his sheets are soaking wet.

Apparently, degenerative scoliosis in the lower spine can cause nerve damage, which has symptoms including but not limited to: limbs falling asleep at random times, tingling and numbness in the lower extremities, and…

“It’s technically _not_ incontinence,” Dr. Cho says, matter of fact. “The nerves on your spine are unable to communicate your need to urinate properly with the brain. Have you been having issues getting or maintaining an erection?”

Steve rubs his eyes with his fists until he sees white lights behind his eyelids. “I don’t know.” He does know. Thor even commented on it. Steve blamed it on heartbreak.  


He hears her sigh, then hears her start scribbling something down onto a paper. “I’m referring you to a specialist; you need surgery as soon as possible.”

Steve’s head shoots up at that, and he blinks away the stars. “I thought my spine needed a 45 degree curve, first.”

“Not if there’s nerve damage,” she says curtly. “Steve, you should have  _ told _ me you were having these symptoms.”

Steve snorts. Then laughs.

Dr. Cho looks at him severly. “I fail to see what part of this is funny.”

Steve laughs again. “What’s funny is that after everything, after all the side effects of my medications and treatments and all of my illnesses and problems and everything I’m dealing with, with the constant nausea, and fatigue, and dizziness, I’m supposed to have known that the reason that my arm falls asleep sometimes is due to my  _ spine _ ,” Steve spits. “No, it takes me pissing my bed in the middle of the night to realize that there’s something wrong other than ‘it’s bent a bit’.” Steve wouldn’t have even come in here if it weren’t because he needed a checkup for the roofie. Without this checkup, he’d be pissing his bed for weeks before he thought something was wrong, thinking it’s another side effect from another fucking thing.

It’s silent for a second, then Dr. Cho writes something down, and asks, “Are you in any more pain than usual?”

Steve snorts humorlessly. More pain? Pain isn’t analog, it’s a constant. He’s given up cataloging it a long time ago.

“Yeah,” he says. "Sure."  


“Make an appointment with this doctor’s office as soon as possible. Until then…” Dr. Cho gives him an apologetic look. “You may want to consider wearing some specialty underwear.”

“Diapers,” Steve says. Might as well call it what it is. “Twenty-five, and wearing _diapers_.”

“Steve?”

Steve’s on too many meds for coffee, so he’s not at his best when Pietro peeks through his door to his office.

“What is it Pietro?” He says, trying to offer a smile. Pietro just frowns at him back, looking mildly worried, and Steve gives up on the expression.

“It’s personal,” Pietro says. “I wanted to ask if you knew of Bucky Barnes?”

Steve straightens at his name. “I… did.”

Pietro nods. “I don’t know if you can but… he hasn’t been around as much to the orphanage, I wanted to know if he is okay.”

Steve exhales sharply. “You know him?” Why does everyone seem to know him except for Steve?

Pietro nods. “Wanda and I’s parents were killed in the Kosovo war. He helped get us here when we were young. Sometimes we help out there with the younger kids.”

Steve swallows hard. “I… didn’t know that.”

“Yes." Pietro shuffles awkwardly. "Well, if you see him, please let him know we are worried."  


“Sure,” is all Steve can choke out in response, and Pietro exits the room, and Steve remembers that Natasha was the one who recommended Pietro and Wanda as workers in the first place.

And can’t stop thinking about the fact that Bucky is missing.

Steve steps out of Dr. Erskine’s office six days before his birthday. He’s been given a detailed, confusing rundown of everything that’s wrong with his back by the man, who tried and failed to hide his fascination at Steve’s X-rays. He at least offered him some comfort, saying that he’s confident he’ll get Steve back and functional after the surgery, including ridding him of his incontinence.

But the breakdown of what has to happen is still frightening. He’ll be in surgery for about twelve hours, afterwards he’ll be bound to his bed for a few days. Then he’ll be sent home and essentially useless for two weeks. After that, if he’s lucky, he can try walking, but all in all he’s going to have to take at least a month and a half off of work for recovery.

His top of the line insurance requires a 10% copay, meaning, after some frantic searching on the phone as he walks to the subway, he’ll need about $14,000 for the surgery, alone. Not including the physical therapy he might need during the recovery, or the pain medications, or the crutches or the cane. He’ll need to give up his space at the gallery to get some of the money. He’ll have to go into forbearance on the loans for the coffee shop so he can save some of the monthly payments up, though it’s going to kill his credit and raise the interest rate due to the late payments. They’ll be a payment plan option for the surgery, they usually have one, so if he can stretch that money out for two years and assume they have no APR, then he might be able to get the shop back up and running as soon as he pays back the extra money he’ll owe, assuming he can get his employees back after laying them all off after—

The good things about New York is that no one tries to talk to you when you cry on the subway.

Steve knocks on Natasha’s door when she wakes up that night, and settles into her bed to tell her what’s going to happen.

“$14,000?” She reiterates, picking an outfit for work.

“Just for the surgery.”

“ _ With _ insurance?”

“Yeah.”

“Steve, I’m so sorry,” Natasha says.

Steve rubs his face. “It’s fine. I can swing it. It’s fine. You and Sam should decide what you want to do with your half, technically you can overrule me and keep things running, but I really need the money so I don’t go under.”

“...You know who could help you with this,” Natasha says.

Steve closes his eyes. “What do you want from me, Natasha. To go crawling back?”

“He’d do anything for you, Steve,” Natasha says.

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not  _ that _ to him.”

Natasha turns to him and crosses her arms. “Walk with me to work tonight, Steve.”

“Get Clint.”

“He can’t.”

“Sam.”

“Him either.”

Steve snorts loudly. “How convenient for you, huh.”

“I came to this country when I was 12 years old,” Natasha says, turning back to pull out a pure white dress. “My biological parents had two choices: smuggle me out of Russia, or sell me to the highest bidder.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “Nat…”

“They picked the former,” Natasha murmurs. “And they put me in the hands of the Barnes. I exchanged hands with the Barnes family from country to continent to country, until I found myself in New York, at that orphanage. I grew up there for years. I was pretty fucked up, but so were a lot of kids there. They gave me papers. They gave me a family.”

Steve swallows. “How much does that cost you?” He asks, dreading the answer.

“That? Nothing. Barnes’ don’t charge kids,” Natasha says. “Ever.”

Steve believes that.

“Walk with me to work tonight,” Natasha asks. “Please,” she says. “I think you need it.”

Natasha’s dressed in all white, a short dress and big jacket over her sturdy frame, tall heels slung over her shoulder, sneakers on her feet.

Steve hasn’t walked her to work in a long time, but it’s still just the same: the town descending in caliber and ascending in population, men and women roaming the streets with nothing else to do but walk outside, making noise for the sake of making noise.

“This is all the Barnes’,” Natasha says as she steps over a piece of the sidewalk that had fallen into pieces. “Every person and every street from here to the water.”

It’s not much. The quality of building was no longer sleek and new age, but simple, crumbling brick. Police sirens hollered in the distance; a dog was barking from the apartment across the street. And there were girls on the corner, doing exactly as girls on the corner did, in short dresses and tight tops, smiling to the men that slowed down as they drove by.

Steve’s been with her to her club a few times, enough to know that when she walks straight instead of turning right, she’s going the wrong way.

“Nat?”

“They’ve got a pretty big territory,” she continues on, unperturbed. “Even after everything that happened.”

They stop at a light, cars zooming in front of them in the night.

“What happened?” Steve asks.

The light turns, and they walk. “Barnes isn’t a very Russian last name, despite being the premier Russian family in the city. Ever wondered why? It’s because the Barnes used to be joined in with another family, and they held their name, Zola.”

“Yeah, I heard something about that,” Steve mutters.

“The name traced back generations, all the way into the Soviet Union.” Natasha continues, still walking with determination down the street. “They came over here after World War II, put their roots down, and grew into one of the largest and most ruthless crime families in all five boroughs. They did it all. Drugs, smuggling, extortion of businesses small and large, the whole nine yards.”

“But they did good things too. Inside the family, the Barnes and their followers were in charge of most of them: Smuggling children out of communist Russia and into the US, and forging papers so that they could live here. Many would join the mafia, some others would go to school, get trade jobs, or go into sex work. But they were always given outs. Work for a few years, then you’re free.”

“You were one of those?”

Natasha stops suddenly in front of a brown brick building, large enough to take up half the city block. Steve slows to a stop next to her, then looks up at it as well.

“The orphanage?” Steve asks, realizing.  


Natasha nods, and they walk in.

Inside there’s a desk in the front with a distracted receptionist both typing on the computer and speaking on the phone. Natasha walks right past her and down the yellow lit hallways, to a staircase with a keypad on the doorknob. She types in a code and the door buzzes open, and they enter a dim staircase with concrete walls. Something is dripping from a pipe somewhere, and the lights hum overhead.

“The US got rid of orphanages years ago, officially,” Natasha said. “The Barnes rebranded this place as a group home, then as a halfway house. But, unofficially, it still operates as an orphanage, and it still does the same thing it’s done for decades.”

They exit a door at the bottom and enter into another yellow hallway, which was full of the sound of children’s laughter, and babies crying. On the right wall is a chipped mural of a family sitting on a bench in a park, a yellow circle of a sun above them. The hallway itself is full of doors, but Natasha leads Steve past them all to the large room in the back.

It's a madhouse. Children are running around a small playset in the corner, screaming and playing games only they understood. To the left are tables and chairs where some exhausted adults were sitting and eating, some brushing children’s hair, or feeding them from the breast, or just letting them play as they took a much needed rest.

“I grew up here,” Natasha says quietly. “Among the kids.”

They walk to a set of soft recliners in front of a worn table and sit down.

“This is Winnifred’s legacy,” Steve says softly.

Natasha nods. “She built this thing. Set up the routes, created the connections from here all the way to Russia. There’s offices down the hall where nurses give vaccines and medications. Free for kids, cheap for adults. Places to sleep for those like me that were sent here alone. They get sent to school, get adopted by those who can't go elsewhere. Sex workers that work for the Barnes’ can use this place as ‘night-care’ of sorts. Daycare if they need it too.”

“Why doesn’t Winnifred run the entire organization now?” Steve asks, voice still quiet. “After the revolution and everything?”

“Even after it all, she just wanted to manage this part of it,” Natasha says. “Take care of those that needed it. So George took the kingpin spot in her place, and acted in her interest. Ended the neighborhood extortion, killing anyone that tries to start it again.”

Steve watches as a mother brushes the hair of one of her daughters. She’s dressed similar to Natasha, probably stopping in before work.

“Did Bucky threaten you if you told me about him?” Even asking that, Steve knows that’s not true.

“No, he didn’t. I owe him a favor,” Natasha says. “A very, very big one.”

Steve frowns. “For the immigration? I thought you said he doesn’t charge children?”

“Not for the immigration. I wasn’t a child when I did what I did to him,” Natasha says. “I was 18 and jaded, pissed about being adopted, tempted by one of the larger crime organizations that was trying to form next to the Barnes’.”

“What happened?”

Natasha sighs. “I sold out some information about a truck full of drugs coming in,” Natasha says. “I wasn’t thinking about where it was going, just that I could make something from it.”

“Drugs?” Steve frowns. “What kind of drugs? Cocaine? Meth? Heroin? Because that shit gets in schools, Nat.”

“Insulin,” Natasha says.

Steve feels like he’s been slapped.

“They ship prescription drugs from South America and Canada. Cancer drugs, insulin, rescue inhalers, anything that’s been marked up by the drug market in the US, that people can’t afford without insurance. They either sell them or trade them for work." Natasha smiles slightly. "Why do you think the Barnes have such a loyal following? They’re lifesavers.”

Steve swallows. “What happened next?”

“Well. We were found out, and a firefight broke out,” Natasha says. “I hid, but Bucky found me. He told me I was going down a bad route, tried to talk me out of dealing with the leftover remnants of the Zola family. But I stabbed him, and he knocked me out. Next thing I know, my mom’s looking down on me.”

Steve’s eyes fall shut.

__

_ “A man I used to consider a good friend became involved in the wrong crowd. He was my friend, so I tried to confront him, and, well, I was stabbed.” _

“I should have been killed.” Natasha sighs. “His men really wanted to kill me, that’s the protocol. But Bucky vouched for me, hard. He grew up near me in the orphanage. He gave me a second chance in a world where second chances don’t exist. For that, I owe him my life,” Natasha says. “I told you he was a good man, and I _meant_ it. But it wasn’t just for you that I wanted you two together. Bucky has his mother’s vision, Steve. He wants to fill in the cracks, be that good man in a bad world. And you’re the best, most moral guy I’ve ever met. It was a match made in heaven.”

“This is pretty far from heaven, Nat,” Steve sputters out. “This is Hell.”

“Hell is a place for unrepentant sinners,” Natasha says. “Evil people. They may be born into privilege, or adversity, or luxury, or war, but when they die, it’s the devil’s job to even the odds.”

A smaller woman with her face wrapped in a scarf appears at the doorway, and two kids rush from the back to greet her with smiles, chattering in a language Steve doesn’t understand. She lifts the smaller one up and grabs the other in her hand, and steers them out of the building.

“No,” Natasha says softly. “This isn’t Hell. This is a place for survivors. For hope, and love, and everything that comes with it. This is Bucky, trying to even the odds.”

Steve meets her eyes. They’re sparkling with intensity. 

"You really believe in him.”

“Yes," Natasha says with pure certainty. "But I don’t think he can do it alone. He’s turning everything on it’s head, taking on things bigger than even Winnifred and George had ever imagined. He’s going to lose himself,” Natasha says. “Unless he has someone to help him. To pray for him. To keep him on the right path.”

“I fell in love with him,” Steve says.

“I know.”

“But I never asked for this,” Steve whispers.

“I know that too,” Natasha says. “And you don’t have to be part of it. When the Barnes’ say you’re out, you’re out. But I know for a fact, even if you still decided never to come back, if Bucky caught a hint about your surgery, he’d pay for it all. That man, like you, doesn’t stop loving people, ever. And he loved you like _that._ You are like _that,_ to him."

Natasha stands up, and Steve stands with her. 

"If anyone deserves a second chance, it's him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _peeks from around a rock_ : this is less sad than the last chapter? or just sad in a different way? I'm sorry its 1 AM and i'm on call for work tomorrow i hope you like this


	12. Let's Hear It for The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Lives Matter!
> 
> See also the story _was_ done, except I freaked out and changed the ending a lot and then lost a bunch of it, so I formally apologize to those that only read completed stories!!!
> 
> Enjoy!

# Chapter 12: Let’s Hear It for the Devil

It’s nineteen days from surgery, and Steve is thinking about Grandma Peggy. Did she ever get scared when she first enlisted? What was going through her mind, when she decided to slice off her hair and lower her voice to get into the army? Steve bets she never felt doubt about her place in society in a moment of introspection, likes to believe she never suffered a single moment of hesitation, but that, realistically, can’t be true. She must have been frightened, the first time she wielded a gun against the enemy, the first time someone gave her an odd look or discovered her secret.

She had Grandpa Steve, of course, her lover. She must have shared her fears with him, late at night in the mud of a war camp in Europe, releasing them to someone willing to listen, able to understand. How would it feel to wake up knowing this day could be their last? Truly feel that each and every day was a gift, and to be able to share that gift with someone without shame or fear?

Steve’s just going in for spinal surgery. A massive ordeal, sure, one that will change and shape his life for the next year, but something that’s been done a thousand times before. Complicated, but common.

And yet.

The date of the operation looms. Steve feels anticipation hot and wet on his skin like the thick air before a storm. And, he thinks, it should be a good thing. He should be looking forward to this. No more back pain, no more diapers, perhaps even becoming a few inches taller. The omnipresent pain will fade, he’ll be able to be a little like everyone else. Like Peggy. Walk among his peers without the feeling of _different_ over his head. Of an inferiority born from his peers and his status in society, one that is unfounded but still present, still affecting every decision and every moment of his life.

So why is he so scared?

Fifteen days from surgery, Steve’s phone receives a text from a fake number, telling him his credit card’s been compromised, and he needs to provide them with his card number and social security number in order to activate it.

He snorts and reports it, then deletes it. At the bottom of the screen, his last conversation with Bucky appears.

Steve couldn’t say why he clicks on it again. Perhaps it’s the loneliness—he's not talking to anyone right now, avoiding everyone in his house, eyes to the ground when he comes and goes. It’s probably not insecurity. Maybe. Just...

Not once has Bucky tried to contact him.

And that’s fine. Because that’s what Steve told him to do. With a _gun_ to his face, no less.

Jesus. Steve did not know he was capable of _that._

See, nine times out of ten, Steve would be happy with someone respecting his wishes. He’s not one to take back his words, to make claims without meaning. But this time, the radio silence gnaws at him. He wishes…

He doesn’t know what he wishes for. For Bucky to fight for him? To batter his phone with texts professing how sorry he was for dragging him into hell? To shower him with gifts until he wears down inch by inch? Steve’s always thought that behavior was stalkerish and downright creepy, scoffed at the rom-coms that romanticized it, swore to himself he’d never respond to that kind of behavior.

And yet, can’t help but wonder if Bucky thinks of him. If he ever takes a sip of coffee and frowns at it, thinking of Steve’s little shop. If he ever passes chocolate ice cream at the store and remembers their date. If he ever lies in bed and thinks it too big, wakes up in the morning and thinks it too quiet, coasts through the day with his head in the clouds because there’s nothing worth bringing it down to earth.

Because Steve does.

He wonders how he’s doing, how his Mom is doing, his Dad, even. If he finally managed his work life balance. Whether he gets enough sleep. What flavor soap he wants to try next. Things that never mattered until they had something to do with Bucky.

Steve doesn’t text.

Twelve days from surgery, Steve writes the shop's temporary closing plan and presents it to Sam and Natasha at an ‘investors’ meeting in the break room of the shop after closing on a bright, overheated Sunday afternoon.

He’s expecting the meeting to take maybe fifteen minutes: enough time to field their concerns and complaints. The meeting _does_ take fifteen minutes, but within the first thirty seconds, his own contract is thrown (metaphorically) back in his face.

“Yeah, no,” Sam says, forearms tight across his chest, leaning back in the break room seat. “We’re not letting you close the shop.”

Natasha nods in agreement, fingertips curled around a cup of cold brew, looking at him with sharp eyes.

Steve’s actually floored. Completely. This is the first time he’s spoken to them properly in days. He clenches his jaw, straightening to his full height, and projecting as much force into his voice as he can. “It’s my shop, my company, and therefore, my _right_ to default on loans so I can use my portion of the payment to help with the surgery. I mean—” Steve shakes his head. “What about $14,000 don’t you understand guys? That doesn’t just come out of the air!”

Natasha crosses her arms as well now, a thin sheen of sweat covering her skin and wetting the neckline of her tank top. “See there’s your first mistake. It’s not your company, it’s _our_ company. You gave Sam and I 25% stake, and gave yourself 50%. In order to make a decision like this, you need a majority stake in the company to agree, a majority being a minimum of 51%.”

“So either Natasha or I have to sign off on this in order for it to go through,” Sam says. “And we have officially decided we are not going to.”

He knows Natasha wants him to get the money from Bucky, but this seems to be a step too far. It’s not like this is a publicly traded company or anything, it’s a coffee shop on the street! The fact that they were using business practices to force him to keep the shop open…

“What would you have me do?” Steve says, furious and frustrated. “Not get surgery? Deal with-with my issues for the rest of my life? Die, tilted at a 90-degree angle, pissing my own pants? What?”

Natasha gives Sam a nod, and Sam moves from his reclined position to a more stable one, uncrossing his arms. “All of the staff—except for Parker but the kid’s in high school so I don’t blame him—agreed to an hourly reduction of about 75% to help you save money. At 75%, we’d have to shorten daily hours and maybe do half days on Sunday, but the cost of reduction of hours is outweighed, upfront, by the employee payment reduction,” Sam says.

Steve’s eyes widen.

Natasha speaks next. “Of course, we had to verbally convince Parker it was okay that he couldn’t afford the cut backs, but apparently the kid's pretty handy with a computer. He set up an online donation page for you. Already I’ve donated, and, considering how much money I make stripping, it’s really no skin off my back. Especially living with you two guys,” Natasha grins.

Steve gets the sinking feeling that they’ve rehearsed this.

Sam continues. “I’ve shared the link with the Wilson’s. Mom and Dad put in some money, some Aunts and Cousins pledged some too. Even Riley’s put in a few bucks.”

“We dropped a line to Thor, who’s sharing it with the rugby team,” Natasha says, studying her nails like he’s not delivering life changing information. “Put some signs up around your yoga studio. At minimum, we hope there will be enough to cover your payments until your back on your feet, at maximum, you won’t have to pay very much, if anything at all.”

“You can’t—how—” Steve sputters. This isn’t okay, he can’t ask his friends— “That’s not how things work,” he finally settles on. “I can’t ask my staff to take hours off for me—”

“They volunteered,” Sam says. “All of ‘em, even the new hire. Can you believe that? Dude’s been here two weeks and is already willing to help. That’s all you, man.”

“You guys can’t pay for me. I won’t let you. This is too much.” Steve says. “Just let me figure it out, and you won’t have too—”

“It’s already done,” Natasha says with a put-upon sigh, like this conversation is boring to her.

Sam continues where she stops, giving Steve no time to speak up. “It’s unsurprising how much people want to help you Steve. You built yourself a family here, and family looks out for one another. How many bosses do you think provide health insurance to their part time workers? How many take over shifts for employees that call out sick without notice? How many bosses do you think work with crazy college schedules, and do it all with a smile? Of _course_ your staff is going to help!”

“It’s about time you stopped acting like you’re in this alone, Steve,” Natasha continues.

Steve shakes his head in disbelief, but his voice is caught in his throat. He never would have expected this level of support from them, from all of them. He’s barely even had a family before, never considered that idea that he may have _found_ himself a little family, in all the mess that is his life.

“Guys…” Steve says weakly, trailing off when he realizes nothing else is forthcoming.

“You gave me a chance when no one else did.” Natasha says, looking at him now. “Let me repay the favor.”

“I can’t take this.”

“We’ve got you, Steve,” Sam says.

“I…” Steve swallows around something thick in his throat, eyes blurring.

“Come on,” Natasha says. “Come with us.”

They drag Steve back to his office, Steve sputtering the whole way, and sit him down at his desk. Natasha leans over his shoulder and pulls up the donation site, and he finally shuts up when he realizes he’s already received $994.

**Donald Blake - $150**

_We need you at 100% Steve! You’re always the life of the party, but most importantly you never fail to make me smile. Best wishes on your surgery, and good luck!_

**Riley Wilson - $25**

_Get well soon, Steve._

**Scott - $50**

_Though honestly, I’m pretty sure Logan’s the one that blew your back out, not scoliosis. Either way, here’s to a fast recovery!_

**Natasha - $500**

_Don’t worry, I make a lot of money._

**Logan - $69**

_get back in action so we can make that dollar amount a reality_

**Mr. and Mrs. Wilson - $200**

_Best wishes and speedy recovery! The only thing we require from you is that you come here for Thanksgiving again. You’re a Wilson, through and through Steve. Take care. Love you._

Steve chokes up, partially with laughter, partially with tears, when he reads through his donations. “They're gonna get kicked off the website with some of those comments,” Steve says sniffing. “And Natasha, seriously?”

“I’m a stripper, Steve,” Natasha says, grinning. “And I am _very_ good.”

Steve closes the page and stands up, wanting to meet his friends on his level. “Guys, I really can’t thank you enough. Really. This is too much, whether you think it is or not. But I just… thank you. I’ve had to do everything myself, you know? The shop, all of it. It’s my baby. And to keep it open, even when I’m not there is the best feeling in the world. So thank you.”

Sam and Natasha give him hugs after that, and Steve feels a smile bloom on his face, for the first time, the right way.

Seven days from surgery. And Steve...

Steve just wants to talk. That’s all.

It has nothing to do with digging for an apology, or wondering how he is, or wanting to know more about his work, or the fact Steve’s just woken up from a dream about him, where he held him close and told him it was going to be okay—

Steve shouldn’t even be considering this.

**1-(929)-555-8294**

_Can we talk?_

Steve doesn’t get a message back until he’s knees deep in a purchase order, the Friday morning growing long, the weather finally taking a break from extreme heat to just regular, normal heat. But he doesn’t miss the text tone when he receives a response.

_Of course. Is everything okay?_

Steve toys with the phone for a few minutes, then decides to keep it brief.

_I’ll be at the shop until 4._

At 3 PM, Bucky Barnes, son of the head of the Russian mafia, walks through the door to his office. Looking at him is like getting sprayed in the face with a water hose.

Steve stands up as he walks in, and he fights to keep his expression cool. Bucky’s suit jacket is burgundy today, his button up white, his hair pulled tight and away from his face. He looks good everywhere except for his eyes, which were puffed up and underlined in a muted gray, and which traced over Steve’s face with open trepidation.

Steve swallows around his tight throat, looking into his blue-gray eyes for the first time in over a month, and feeling just like that first day, slightly defensive, slightly off-kilter, and seeking just a little bit more of his gaze.

Steve breaks eye contact first. “Sit, please,” he says.

Bucky sits down, the desk acting as a barrier between them, a line of physical defense for Steve to hide behind as he sits as well.

Bucky licks his lips, looking all like a child to be scolded and a man filled with hope and a guilty party preparing for punishment. He wears every emotion on his face, but doesn’t speak, still looking for all the world like he’s amazed to even be here.

Everything Steve’s prepared to ask flies out the window, and his heart takes control.

“How in God’s name can you be a mafia boss if you wear your emotions on your sleeve like a damned schoolgirl?” He blurts.

Bucky snorts in open-mouthed surprise, a little laugh coming out.

“Seriously,” Steve says, feeling a little hysterical but deciding to roll with it. “You’re a damn teddy bear. How can you…” Steve swallows, and nails it on the head. “Why did you lie to me?”

All signs of mirth melt from Bucky’s body. Bucky dips his head. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “A thousand times over, I’m sorry.”

Steve drums his fingers on the desk, waiting for a real response.

Bucky takes a deep breath.

“When I first laid eyes on you, I thought that you were beautiful,” Bucky admits. “I still do. I, uh,” Bucky huffs, a humorless smile on his lips. “Was also under the impression that you _knew._ Ma sort of implied that you did. That’s why I spoke like that. You know, I thought you knew.”

“The favor,” Steve breathes. “You were offering me a _favor.”_

“You were so clueless,” Bucky says, smiling hesitatingly.

Steve snorts.

“See...” Bucky licks his lips. “We don’t offer favors, Steve. Not to people we don’t know, not without a very good reason. And _never_ does Ma ever send me, either. But she granted you one. You know what that means, Steve?” Bucky leans in. “You could’ve had me do anything, and I would have. And I mean _anything,_ Steve. And of all things you asked, you asked for me to take out the trash,” Bucky chuckles a little.

“Hindsight is 20/20, I guess,” Steve mutters. Then, bolder, he says, “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Bucky’s eyes dim. “But it does, in a way. You were so... Fuck, Steve, you didn’t ask me for anything! You just wanted me.” Bucky leans back, hands unusually expressive. “Here you were, ignorant to who I really was, and you were still interested. It didn’t even cross your _mind_ who I was. And for the first time, I met someone who could… give me a clean slate, you know? I was addicted to that idea. Here you are with your-your determination, and your coffee shop, and your ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude, and fuck Steve, I couldn’t last a second. I fell hard, and fast.”

Bucky sighs “I didn’t want you to sully your image of me. You’re just perfect, you’re _so_ perfect. I just... wanted to break things to you slowly. The _right_ way. I wanted you to hear everything from my mouth before you made a decision. But I waited too long, and everything went wrong, and I fucked up so bad. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Steve, as he always does, sees it from the other person’s side. From Bucky’s side. Sees the sweet, quiet man that works too hard and cares too much and feels alone, just like Steve does. And he starts to melt.

“I went to the orphanage,” Steve says.

Bucky looks surprised. “Really?”

Steve bites the inside of his bottom lip. “Natasha took me there. Explained what it was. What you’re trying to do. That’s why I called you here in the first place,” Steve says. “Because I want to know what you are trying to do.”

Bucky sits up slowly in his seat. All the vivid emotion from before bleeds from his face until there’s stone in its place.

“Why?”

Steve sees this all, and swallows hard. “Because I need to know that you’re the good man Clint and Natasha and Pietro and all of them say you are. Because I want to…” Steve rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Because I miss you, Bucky, and part of me hopes that we can... that things can be... not the same, but... maybe, good, again.” Steve says.

Bucky’s quiet for a long moment, and Steve finds himself nervous even more.

Bucky tilts his head to the side. “What did they tell you?”

“Clint told me how you helped with his landlords. He says the place is running well now, says to tell you thank you. He also says you displace your people there, honest people. Natasha told me how you rescued her from Russia. Gave her papers and a life. And how she turned around and stabbed you, and she gave you a second chance, and how I should give you one too.”

Bucky nods and stands from his chair. “If you want to know, truly, then we can’t talk here,” he says.

“I figured as much.”

“Come with me.” Bucky asks, his face still stone. Steve’s never seen this side of him before, the straightness of his shoulders, the height of his chin, the distance and coolness in his gaze, the intimidation woven into every line of his body. It’s intimidating. Powerful. Kinda hot.

Steve goes with him.

There’s a cold, tall building among the other cold, tall buildings in Manhattan that apparently belongs in part to Bucky’s company. His _front_ of a company. What the hell is Steve about to get into?

The lobby is beautiful. White marble floors that make that confident noise when heels click against it, black walls and a high ceiling with an artsy chandelier. He’s met immediately with a stone faced security guard. She confiscates his phone and scans him with a metal detecting wand, all while Bucky waits patiently behind. He’s given a guest badge that he wears around his neck, and joins Bucky again to walk from the lobby to the atrium.

The atrium goes up several floors, with balconies on both sides. In front of them is a series of windows, criss-crossed by black metal bars to make a lattice design, letting in the dull gray light from the day. Despite it being Friday, it’s buzzing with people, either sitting near each other at tables sharing coffee, or walking in every direction with phones or tablets in hand. Steve wouldn’t even believe it was a front with how much seemingly legitimate work looked like it was being done, which he supposes is the point. Steve observes, but doesn’t speak until they are tucked into an elevator, a private one that only has a button for the tenth floor.

“Floors one through nine are dedicated to legitimate work,” Bucky says, breaking the silence as they smoothly go upwards. “Many employees don’t know what the back half of this company does. We like to keep it that way.”

“What counts as legitimate?” Steve asks. He assumes the elevator must have some level of security, given that Bucky is willing to talk about the side business inside of it.

“Going through legal channels to create import/export deals with the surrounding companies. Importing and exporting things through customs as they should be. Paying taxes, selling products to vendors, everything a trade company would do. Up here…”

Bucky trails off as they reach the tenth floor. The elevator opens to a simple hallway, a few opaque offices on the right side of the wall, the left looking out over the atrium. The furthest office, on the corner, had “C.E.O. James Buchanan Barnes,” written on the door.

Steve sinks down onto a plush couch that sits in front of a tidy desk, windows looking out upon the rest of the city, view blocked by a taller building across the street. “The promotion went through then?”

Bucky nods, sitting across from him. “I got the job,” he says, voice hinting at pride.

“Congratulations,” Steve says, and he supposes he means it. It’s everything Bucky was working for, and more.

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky says with a soft smile.

Steve breathes him in for a moment, the face of the man he’s seen in his dreams, the body of the man he’s _also_ seen in his dreams, the one who he’s fallen for, and can’t seem to fall out of.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Bucky asks, perhaps to just fill the silence.

“I’m okay,” Steve says. It’s silent again, and Steve shakes his head and bites the bullet.

“Why don’t you tell me about the rest of the company?”

Bucky takes a deep breath. Nods. “Most of the money is made through an international network of illegal gambling, both online and in person.”

Steve settles down on the couch to listen.

“Though, lately,” Bucky continues, “States have been passing more laws, legalizing some types of betting. Out of worry for losing our income stream, we’ve been looking for new ideas, leaning on other services.”

“You said most of your money is made through gambling,” Steve says. “What else is there?”

“Payment for our services, income from counterfeit sales, and, now, our work with Stark.”

Wait, what?

“ _Tony_ Stark?”

“That’s another story,” Bucky says, a dry smile on his face. “A fucking nightmare, really. I’ll get into it in a second. The services we offer are refugee relocation, medical supply, prescription sale, sex work, and extortion. Relocation requires us to maintain our roots in Russia and the Ukraine. That’s how we get most of our workers, usually parents of children that can’t afford to pay for the move.”

Steve hums. “Indentured servitude.”

“Right. Once their contract is up, they’re free to leave us with a new identity. Most don’t, they make up our field workers,” Bucky continues. “Our second income stream is medical and drugs, which we smuggle from Europe and Canada. We also have some lines in on hospital workers, we can get expired drugs and old machinery through them. We sell those to the public at a fraction of the original cost, or offer some sort of contract or agreement.”

“You don’t push anything illegal?” Steve asks.

“Technically the whole thing’s illegal, but I know what you mean. We don’t work with street drugs, not anymore. Cleaned that up.”

Steve nods.

“Next biggest is sex work. We’re not pimps,” Bucky qualifies immediately, as if he knows Steve’s next fear. “We provide basic medical services, housing for the transactions to occur, security for the workers, care for pregnancy, care for children, everything. All in exchange for a cut of the profit. It’s not a bad life. Most of the transaction managers are women who use to be prostitutes.”

“Transaction managers,” Steve repeats, an eyebrow raised.

Bucky shrugs his shoulders. “It is what it is. Last stream is extortion,” Bucky sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Doesn’t happen often, but has the biggest payoffs, and is the most fucking exhausting.”

“Who do you extort?”

“People we think deserve it,” Bucky shrugs. “People we can get our hands on. No one local, usually something big and sketchy and American.”

“You talked about Stark?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. So. Remember when Stark came back from Afghanistan? His own company was the one that paid to have him killed.”

“Really? I didn’t hear about that on the news.”

“You wouldn’t. It was brushed over, covered up, in the expert way that only rich people can do. See…” Bucky shifts on the couch. “A portion of his board was dealing weapons to both sides of the table, taking money from members of Congress to push the war further for profit. When Tony tried to shut down his weapons branch, both his multi-billion dollar company, and parts of the US government threatened retaliation. Tony feared for his company, his life, everyone’s lives overseas, so he reached out to us.

“We usually don’t mess with things this big, we’re happy to operate in Brooklyn and Manhattan, but I convinced my father to give it a shot. After that, it was my project, and I knew he was going to judge me over it, for this job.”

“It looks like it paid off,” Steve says.

“Things ended up okay,” Bucky says. “For everyone.”

“So what happened?

“We tried to threaten them. We burned down some product, flooded an empty factory, tried to shut down the weapons for good while the case was going on, but they just came back stronger as ever. Then they tried to kill Ms. Potts, and Tony got a bit more… serious. He called me to Malibu, and we came up with a plan to finish it.”

“Christ,” Steve breathes. “That’s an incredibly dangerous game.” The government? Stark Industries?”

Bucky shrugs. “They all are. But we’re going to win, and in a few days, a disgruntled Stark employee will shoot Obadiah Stane in his office, a congressman will have been discovered in his home, overdosed on heroin, and a bomb will kill several people in the Middle East.”

Steve leans back with a huff, staring at the white ceiling. “Shit,” he says. “This is real, isn’t it?”

“Everyone is better off without these people. Stane gained money by working both sides of a war, a war that several congressmen ensured would be endless. Lives lost in a struggle that had no bearing, just for profit. Now we get to even the odds, Steve. You see? People get a fighting chance because of what we do.”

Steve looks back at Bucky, who’s looking at him with earnest determination. “You believe in people,” Steve says.

“Always,” Bucky says.

Steve swallows hard, his voice suddenly dried up. Because he sees it. Everything that Bucky’s doing, everything he wants to do. He sees it now.

“So,” Bucky says, breaking the silence again. His voice is a little off this time, a little harsher, and Steve stares at him as he leans back on the couch. “That’s me. That’s my business. You have it all, now, Steve. You could—you could destroy me, you know? You could take this to the news, to the cops that aren’t mine, to the FBI. You have the power to end it all.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Steve says.

Bucky stares at him for a long moment. “You wouldn’t, would you?” He murmurs quietly.

“I need to think,” Steve says, standing up.

Bucky nods, standing as well. “You know how to reach me. And Steve.”

Steve looks at him, watches as his face melts a little, back to the Bucky he knows. “I’ll never stop loving you, no matter what. And even if it means spending the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, I will. If it means I could just…”

Steve swallows. “I need to think,” he repeats.

Bucky nods, face falling slightly, and it hurts Steve, deep in his chest. He wants to forgive, to forget, to rush into the other man’s arms and tell him it’s okay. But he can't.

“Okay,” Bucky says quietly. "I understand."

Three days from surgery, Steve and Sam sit on the couch and watch as the news reports the death of Obadiah Stane.

He was shot and killed by a disgruntled employee. That employee is Bucky’s man, implanted in the company. He had a wife and two young children. He is set to head to jail for 25 to life.

The longer time he gets in jail, Steve knows, the more money his family is going to get from Bucky. Bucky’s men probably fought for the opportunity to kill Stane. That man’s family is probably going to get hundreds of thousands of dollars from the Barnes. They’d be set for life.

“You’re going back to him, aren’t you?” Sam asks. He knows this is Bucky’s work, knows that Steve’s been talking to him, knows everything.

Steve shuts his eyes. “He lied to me, right to my face,” he responds. “He’s a criminal. But I miss him so fucking much, I feel like I’m going to die.”

“Steve…” Sam sighs heavily. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“He helps people,” Steve says.

“He killed a man.”

“Who roofied me, and probably others, and apparently is caught up in enough shit to have sway at the police department.”

“He’s killed a _lot_ of people.”

“For good reason.”

“How do you know? How can you _possibly_ know?” Sam snaps. “Steve, he could decide to turn around and kill any person he feels like it at any second. He could turn his back on all his ‘workers’, he could turn his back on you! He could kill you for trying to leave him, kill us from keeping him from you—”

“Is that the kind of man you think he is?” Steve snaps back. “I pulled a fucking gun on him and told him to never talk to me again and you know what he did? He _left,_ and never talked to me again. Is that the kind of person you talked to at dinner, who was actually interested and proud of your work? He’s _sweet,_ and I’ve seen it, and that-that—you can’t _fake_ that. A week working from home, taking care of me with the gentlest hands…” Steve swallows. “Yeah, okay, I’m in love. But that doesn’t mean I’m sacrificing my morality. I believe in him, Sam.”

“In this-this whole ethical crime bullshit?”

“My mom could have had _insulin_ ,” Steve says. “How many others—”

Sam inhales, then exhales slowly. “You do know what going back to him entails, right?” Sam asks. “The rest of your life you’ll have a target on your back. You’ll be associated with him, even if you decide to leave again. If he gets caught, you get caught. If _he_ gets killed—do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” Steve says with the voice of someone who’s made up his mind. “I know.”

“Just… _Dammit_ Steve, don’t be blind about this. If you’re going to jump in like you usually do, at least do it feet first.”

“He helps people. People that everyone else has given up on. And I know what it’s like to be given up on, to be a burden. If I can give that back to someone, give them what Bucky gave to me, the ability to be human for a little while, to cry and joke and be happy...”

“You can have that again, Steve, with someone else,” Sam argues. “There’s no such thing as the ‘one’. There will be others, trust me, you’re a catch.”

Steve snorts loudly, and Sam sighs.

“Everyone keeps telling me to give him a chance,” Steve says, a bit quieter this time. “You’re the only one that hasn’t. And I don’t… Sam you’re my best friend. You’re family. You’ve done so much for me Sam, given me a home, saved my shop… I need you in on this.”

Sam slumps on the couch. He’s silent for a while, long enough for the TV to flip to commercials, and then back to the news.

“One of the best qualities that you have, over anyone else I’ve ever met, is that you still believe in goodness, even when the rest of us sometimes don’t.” Sam finally says. “When he left, it’s like you lost that. Seeing you so depressed, so out of it… it was one of the worst things I’d ever seen. I see how happy he makes you, but… my opinion is my opinion. I don’t like it.”

Steve nods slowly, still looking over at his friend.

“But.” Sam looks at him back. “If you are really going to do this… at the end of the day, it’s your choice. Whatever you choose, and I think I know what it is, I’ll be at your back, okay? Don’t doubt that for a second. Don’t _ever_ doubt that you’ve got me in your corner,” Sam says. “If and when everything goes wrong, you come to me. The Wilsons’ got you. I got you. Understand?”

Steve nods again.

“Come on.” Sam deflates. “Come here, man,” Sam says.

Steve shuffles over on the couch and leans into the hug, burying his head into Sam’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Steve breathes. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

It’s today.

Steve’s starving, lying on his stomach in an operating room preparing to be put to sleep. Thirty minutes ago, he made a phone call that went like this:

“I’m getting surgery today,” Steve says. “On my entire spine. It’s going to take twelve hours. I’m going to be at the hospital for two or three days after. I’ll be in a lot of pain, and be healing from this for the next six months.”

And then, Steve admits it. “I’m scared, Bucky.”

“ _You’ll be okay, Steve._ ” Bucky says. “ _I know you will.”_

Steve closes his eyes, and lets those words settle in his chest.

“Can you be there when I wake up?” Steve whispers. “I know it’s last m—”

 _“Yes,”_ Bucky says.

The anesthesia tech tells him to count back from 100. By 93, he’s out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See look! I fixed it! Don't hurt me <3
> 
> We've got one more to go yall!!
> 
> (There's 69,960 words. Nice)


	13. Who Prays for the Devil?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The uncertainty with my country and with the world made it very difficult to write. Luckily, there is light at the end of the tunnel. Turns out a little bit of hope goes a long way. Thanks, pandora.

## Chapter 13: Who Prays for the Devil?

_But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most, our one fellow and brother who most needed a friend yet had not a single one, the one sinner among us all who had the highest and clearest right to every Christian's daily and nightly prayers, for the plain and unassailable reason that his was the first and greatest need, he being among sinners the supremest?_

_\- Mark Twain_

Awareness comes in waves. Within the first, all he can hear is beeps, the tones and frequencies overlapping. His eyelids are too heavy to open, and something plastic is in his mouth. Everything feels like nothing.

The second wave comes an immeasurable amount of time later. He’s probably considered to be awake now, though just barely. His mouth was free, and his head had turned to the side, drooling into the pillow. He tries, and fails, to swallow his own spit.

The next wave feels like it’s gonna stick. He resists anyway. The simple idea of being awake is too atrocious to even imagine. Escape from this blissful blankness of absolute nothingness to reemerge back into _this_ world? Like a particularly difficult fish, he struggles against it, but the ever patient fisherman doesn’t stop her pull.

Steve’s eyes flutter open. His head feels like it’s swimming in a thick stew. He can feel his body now, though that’s all wrong. He’s aware that it’s there, but... No sensation. No… pain. That… Steve can’t remember a time where he hasn’t felt some sort of pain. It’s nice. Really, _really_ nice. Like he can take on the entirety of fascism in one blow and self-actualize himself all in the same breath.

Before his eyes, the warping lights and fuzzy blinking monitors slowly smooth into detail. Two figures hover over him. He doesn’t know how long he lays there, trying to figure out which way was up, but when he realizes who's next to him, he’s filled with a sudden, intense happiness.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky says. It takes Bucky jostling Steve’s hand for Steve to notice that he’s holding it, and Steve grips it with all his strength. His fingers don’t even twitch. Bucky’s voice sounds like liquid butter, makes Steve feel like he’s bubbling on a saucepan.

Steve rasps out, “You’re _hereeeee_.” He sounds like he hasn’t drank water in a week.

“Yes sweetheart, I’m here,” Bucky says, his smile leaning towards indulgent.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “So... good...”

Bucky laughs, and Steve tries to roll around in it, but the woman at his other side keeps him from moving. She must have been the fisherman in his ear.

“Thanks...” he whispers in her direction.

“For what, dear?” She asks.

“For fishin’.” Steve says.

“You’re welcome dear.”

“What, uh, do you have him on?” Bucky asks the fisherman. His voice is wavy; Steve swears he can see it warp the air.

“Morphine,” she says. “He’ll come out of it soon. How are you feeling, Steve?”

“Smooth. Like... hot soup. On ice. When you, slip on the--slip--slip--slipping--slip--”

Bucky’s laughing again, electricity radiating through the air. “You are so _high_ , Steve.”

“I can taste your laugh,” Steve marvels, and he tries to squeeze Bucky’s hand again. “It’s like the sun. Or. Spearmint.”

He’s like this for… minutes? Hours? Time has refused to assert itself, and Steve still feels like he’s swimming. But eventually he begins to feel again, the bed beneath his body, the tongue in his mouth, the words in his head.

“How are you feeling now, Steve?” The fisherman asks.

“Tickles,” Steve grunts.

“That’s good... alright this level is where we should be, I think. Let’s give him a minute.”

“Bucky, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming. You’re so pretty,” Steve says. “Isn’t he pretty?”

“Steve,” Bucky snorts.

Steve glances at the nurse, who he finally notices is fiddling with his IV machine. “You’re not a fisherman,” he says.

“Nope,” she says.

The tickles turn to pinches, and the pinches become a dull ache. Steve frowns. “Hurts.”

“Gimme a number between one and ten.”

“A-A two.”

“I’ll dial you just a tad back up... That should do it. I’ll be back in a moment, we’re going to move you to your room.”

The nurse leaves, and Steve turns back to Bucky, who is stroking the top of his hand. Steve squeezes, and it works this time. He absorbs the sight of him, tries to burn the image into his brain.

“Thanks,” Steve whispers. Everything still feels off, but Bucky looks clear now, hair falling over his face. He’s still smiling.

“Thank _you_ ,” Bucky says back. “I shouldn’t be saying this while you’re high but... Thank you. For everything. For letting me be here. And I’ll make it up to you, if you let me, Steve.”

Steve observes the wavy man in front of him. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“Don’t answer now,” Bucky says. “Just know I’ll be waiting. If... If you want me. You did pull a gun on me.”

Steve blinks at him a moment. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Silent again, and Steve fights the urge to squirm.

Bucky stands, dropping Steve’s hand. “I’ll go. If you need me, text me. I’m actually not supposed to be here now, even,” he looks over his shoulder, like he’s worried someone is going to barge in to escort him out.

“Stay,” Steve says. He’ll blame the selfishness on the drugs. “For a little longer. We never did have that sleepover.”

Bucky wavers for a moment, then sits back down. “I guess not. For a little longer then.”

Steve sleeps for about two days straight, taking breaks for necessary evils like pissing in a catheter and receiving brutally efficient sponge baths. When he’s no longer in constant need of an IV, he’s approached by a physical therapist who teaches him how to stand. It’s just his luck that the bed next to his is empty, leaving the recovery room just for him and the two physical therapists with him.

He’s unable to bend his back in any capacity. To get up, takes a monumental effort to sit up straight, and turn his whole body as one unit . Finally, they get him sitting on the bed with his feet on the ground. A minute after he’s standing.

“Would you look at that,” Steve says after he catches his breath, leaning on the man next to him for support. “My spine is straight.”

“I should hope so,” the therapist says, and they begin the shuffle across the room to the en suite bathroom.

Going to sleep one way, waking up another... it doesn’t feel real, it still hasn’t set in, that his life has been completely changed. He’s still waiting for it all to revert, for his back to twinge and hurt with every wrong movement, for his spine to twist itself back into what it thinks is right. He’s scared he’ll lose it all again.

“God I can’t wait to pee again,” Steve mutters to himself. One of the men holding him smothers a giggle.

In the bathroom the other two men turn their backs but don’t leave the room. Steve’s pretty sure his ass was out of the hospital gown the whole time, and decided that he doesn’t have the energy to care about privacy. Peeing in a toilet bowl for the first time in days was a sweet relief, especially with his previous incontinence issues. So far, they have yet to return.

Washing his hands, he takes a look at himself in the mirror. He’s not surprised to find himself looking beat up. His face is swollen in response to the trauma of surgery, and his skin is pale and his eyes are red and baggy. 

The mirror allows him a look at his back and he’s more shocked than he should to find a long, straight wound line, right down his spine. It stretches from a few inches below his neck to just above the small of his back, and is covered in layers of white tape and gauze.

“This really happened,” Steve murmurs.

“It sure did,” the therapist says. “Come now, let’s get you back.”

Lying back down in bed was just as arduous as getting up. When he finally makes it there, one therapist congratulates him, while the other begins to wrap some type of compression band around his calves. The therapist pumps them with air, forcing blood up his calves and to his head, in order to protect him from swelling.

Just from that simple movement he feels completely drained, and he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes, it’s still daytime, and blinks sluggishly at the setting sunlight through the window. He becomes aware of a presence in the room, and looks over to Bucky, who’s sitting in a chair by his bed.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky says with a smile. He looks fantastic, as always, even in something as simple as a t-shirt and jeans.

“Buck,” Steve groans. Why did Steve have to see himself in a mirror? He probably looks like hammered shit right now.

“How are you, baby?”

“I’m dying,” Steve says miserably.

“That’s not good,” Bucky says. “Can I do anything to help?”

Steve sighs. “No, I’m just whining.”

“You have a very good reason to whine, Steve. You just went through a fourteen hour surgery on one of the most complex bones in the human body.”

“I lost a whole damn day,” Steve mutters.

“It’s okay if you’re not okay, Steve,” Bucky says simply.

“I know, I know,” Steve waves his own pain off. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Bucky says. “Taking a small sabbatical from work.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just a much needed break, however short. Also gives me time to see you.”

Steve smiles. “I’m glad you came.”

Bucky shifts a little in his chair. “The offer still stands for you to recover at my place.”

Steve deflates slightly. This is a conversation they’ve had once before, over text, a day into Steve’s recovery.

“We could set up the extra bedroom for you, I could cook for you. There’s no stairs at my place either,” Bucky continues listing reasons Steve should stay with him while he recovers, but Steve’s already made up his mind.

It’s one thing for Bucky to see him like this, it’s a whole other for him to have to deal with it everyday. Bucky seeing Steve completely helpless, struggling with daily tasks, unable to even shower without another person washing him… it’s not something he’s ready for him to see.

“That’s okay, Bucky. I think I’d rather stay at my place, just for now.”

Bucky nods, looking understanding, yet still seeming slightly put out. He leaves the topic, at least, and they enjoy each other’s company for a little while longer.

The next day, Steve is visited by Natasha, Clint, and Sam, as he’s coming back from another walk.

“Nat! I think we’re the same height!” Were Steve’s first words as he hobbled in from the corridor.

“No fucking way,” The redhead snaps. “I refuse to accept that.” She walks over to him in her green sundress and stands directly in front of him, nose to nose.

“That’s pretty damn close,” Clint comments from his slouch on the windowsill. He’s in ever-present purple, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. 

“Yeah Nat,” Sam says, wearing a band t-shirt and jeans. “You might be the new short one in the group.”

Natasha stares directly into Steve’s eyes. Steve winks.

“Call the doctor,” she says after a huff. “Have them bend it back.”

“Too late,” Steve says as she goes to join Sam on the bed, glaring at him. “Can’t afford it.”

Steve’s happy to learn that the house had been set up for Steve’s post recovery, including such things as a new mattress raised to his hip height, a device that heightens the toilet seat, and a month’s worth of frozen slow cooker instant meals made by Mrs. Wilson.

“Your mom is a godsend, Sam,” Steve says to the man. He’s relocated back to the bed again, eating a small container of hospital-brand gelatin that was meant to taste like cherries, allegedly. His three friends have pulled up chairs around him.

“They’re _good_ too. She makes me them during finals,” Sam replies.

“How’s recovery going?” Natasha prods.

“Walking makes my ankles swell up, and I can’t poop,” Steve says miserably.

“God, have you ever heard of too much information? Ever?” Clint moans. He is also eating gelatin, his a blue color. How he got it, he refuses to say.

“Let’s… change the subject,” Sam offers. “I heard Bucky came by.”

“Yeah, a little earlier,” Steve says.

“You’re not going to stay with him during recovery?” Clint asks.

Steve frowns. Does Clint worry about having Steve recover at home? He knows he’s going to need a lot of help, but Natasha said she’d help him in the shower, which is really the worst thing he had to ask of anyone. “Why would I?” He asks evasively.

“Nah, I mean, his place is a lot nicer. Probably. It’s probably nicer,” Clint says. “Plus he doesn’t have stairs, and he could probably hire a round the clock staff to like, cook you designer shit and clean up your messes.”

Steve bristles. “I don’t need all that, I can recover just fine on my own.”

“Noble,” Clint says, digging into his gelatin cup.

“Nat said she’d help out, Nat?” Steve looks at her, question in his eyes. He knows this is a big ask, but he already plans on doing his best not to be too much of a hindrance in her daily life.

“Course I will, Steve,” she says, pale arm hanging over the back of Clint’s chair. “Like I said it’s no problem at all. And I apologize for Clint’s lack of self respect.”

“If the man has the money-”

“Lay off, man,” Sam says, tone short.

“Look,” Steve says before things get awkward. “We haven’t been together that long, I don’t know if I want him to see me like that. Recovery is very... human.”

“Hm,” Clint says.

“Gross,” Steve clarifies. “I don’t want to be gross around him.”

“So you can be gross around us?” Clint asks.

“Yeah, you - have you lived with yourself, Clint?” Steve asks.

Clint gives him a dirty look, and Steve makes a face at him.

“Alright boys,” Natasha says, standing and stretching. “Think it’s getting late.”

“Get well soon, Steve,” Sam offers, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“See you around,” Clint says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

They leave him alone with his thoughts. As he settles down to sleep, he wonders what Bucky would think if he had to help him sit on the toilet and change his dressings, help him shower and get dressed like an invalid.

He’s not going to ask him - his recovery is his own - but it’s nice to think that maybe Bucky wouldn’t mind.

He leaves on the morning of the fourth day along with a quarter-inch thick packet of recovery instructions and a series of prescriptions for several controlled substances.The nurse has turned him on his side, and is inspecting the bandage at his back. They are replacing the long term bandage with a few sticky ones that he’s meant to use in the shower.

The nurse rolls him back over and covers him up. “Would you like me to let your partner in now?” He asks, curt and to the point.

“Let me change first,” Steve says. He needs to maintain some level of dignity, which tends to go right out the door in a hospital.

The nurse has to help him step into pants and shoes, and he’s already tired when he pulls on his own shirt.

“Would you like me to call your partner in?” The nurse repeats after the process.

“Yeah that’s fine, thank you,” Steve says, already feeling exhausted.

The nurse opens the privacy screen and leaves, opening the door to let Bucky into the recovery room.

“God I am ready to go home,” Steve says as Bucky circles the bed.

“I can’t even imagine.” Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, lets his thumb run up Steve’s neck.

Steve smiles, and tilts his head up for a kiss, which Bucky gleefully gives.

“Not looking forward to the ride,” Steve mutters when they separate.

“I have the car out front. I’m personally looking forward to carrying you up your staircase like a princess.”

“Why do you find that so exciting?” Steve grouches, but he’s less upset with the weight of Bucky’s palm on his shoulder.

The nurse returns with a wheelchair in tow. “How is your pain doing?” He asks.

“It’s manageable,” Steve says.

“You’ve been prescribed opioids,” he says. “Take them as directed, and stop taking them and switch to acetaminophen as soon as your doctor advises. No twisting, bending, or lifting heavy items.”

“My best moves,” Steve says wryly. The nurse looks suitably unimpressed.

“If you don’t take your recovery seriously, you risk doing damage to your back and having to go through longer physical therapy sessions. Now, you should switch to slippers over socks, and move from pants to nightshirts for sleeping. You should spend the first few weeks just resting. Have food delivered or cooked. Got it?”

“Got it,” Steve says, suitably chastised.

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask before you discharge?”

“Weird thing… My eyes hurt, actually,” Steve says. “Or, maybe hurt is the wrong word. Everything still looks... off. Like it’s tilted?”

The nurse hums for a moment. “Our brains are powerful things,” he says, a little less curt. “When your spine was bent, it put _all_ of you out of alignment, including your eyes. So what you saw before was image slightly off the truth, and your brain was adjusting reality to make it seem normal. You probably didn’t even notice.”

“This is weird,” Steve says, closing his eyes tight and opening them again. “So the whole world’s been tilted, and now it's upright. And now I’m seeing what I’m supposed to have been seeing this whole time?”

“Exactly,” the nurse says.

“You hear that Buck?” Steve asks. “My heads on straight now. I’m seeing things how they actually are.”

“And how do things look to you now?”

Steve takes a long steady look at Bucky, absorbing the man in front of him for perhaps the first time.

“Phenomenal.”

Together, they make their way to Bucky’s car, Bucky’s hand held tightly in Steve’s as the nurse wheels them out. He holds it as they make their way to the black SUV parked outside, but Steve shakes it off when he goes to stand. The driver has the door open, and a hand out to help him up, but Steve shakes that off too.

He walks the few steps to the car, and turns his back to the seat.

“You got it?” Bucky asks.

“The question is going to get very old, very fast, Bucky,” Steve warns. He sits down, and remembers what the nurse told him: turn your knee and shoulder as one unit. He does so, and gets himself settled in the seat, leaning with a bone straight back against the chair.

“Not too hard,” Steve says, giving Bucky a thumbs up.

Bucky exhales and heads to get in on the other side, and they start towards home.

  
  
  


The first month of Steve’s recovery was a lot of pills, a lot of trouble walking, and a lot of feeling vaguely nauseous. So, the usual.

Every morning and evening he took his own temperature to watch for fever, and he took a line of pills that would be worth thousands on the street. During the day, his heart rate was monitored by a hand-me-down fitbit that Sam had, as a spike in his heart rate could show signs of complications.

For the first week or so, he’s only able to make it from his room to the kitchen and back without becoming completely exhausted or feeling residual pain. The few times he showered were with substantial assistance from Natasha, who changed his bandage and helped wash out his hair.

The opioids made him cloudy and constipated, and he ditches them after a week in favor of a rather large dose of over-the-counters. The doctor had prescribed him sixty; the remaining fifty three sit in the medicine cabinet to grow dust.

“You can give them to Bucky,” Natasha says when he brings it up one morning at breakfast. “There’s a place at his work where they store all the prescriptions that people may need for medical reasons, this might help.”

“Better than letting them waste or throwing them away,” Steve surmises. He pours an extra dose of laxative into his raspberry smoothie, and starts the blender again.

Natasha watches him do so, then chimes in as it stops. “The Brown’s not going to the superbowl?”

“We’re working on it,” Steve says gruffly.

“Can’t help but notice the lack of Bucky around here,” Natasha comments casually.

“I’m waiting on bringing him over,” Steve says as he shuffles over to the freezer.

“Have you been talking at least?” She asks.

“Not really, don’t have a lot of time for it.” Steve pulls out a freezer bag of beef and potatoes to start in the slow cooker, and adds Mrs. Wilson to the list of people he owes the whole world too.

“You think he might think that you’re changing your mind back?”

“What?” Steve pauses from where he’s emptying the bag into the slow cooker on the counter.

“About taking him back.”

“No,” Steve says, slowly continuing his motions. He thinks back to the conversations he’s had with him in the past two weeks, most of them in the hospital. “I mean, I’ve been too tired to keep up with him at home, true, but we talked at the hospital, we kissed, he carried me up the stairs.”

“Alright, but _does_ he know, without a doubt? You denied his request to stay with him, even when he asked you to.”

“Because this shit is embarrassing!” Steve snaps, temper flaring. “We’ve been together for how many weeks? Sure, I may have learned that he’s not at all who he says he is, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be okay with him knowing I’m constipated, or dealing with the fact I only shower like once every three days. The last thing I want is a boyfriend that has to wait on me hand and foot due to my medical issues.”

“Steve.” Natasha adopts an exasperated expression, face pinching in frustration. “You just had massive surgery on your _entire spine_ . There are metal bars and studs in your back, holding you in place while your body heals. You are going to suck right now, and Bucky _knows_ that.”

“I can throw my pride and dignity out the window with you Nat, but not with him,” Steve argues back.

Natashs sighs in annoyance. “Talk to him, at least. Okay? He’s probably worried about you, but trying to give you space.”

“Fine,” Steve snaps, and he grabs his drink and heads back to his room. “God I hope this smoothie works.”

“If it does, please give Sam and I fair warning,” Natasha tosses out after him.

  
  
  


It does.

  
  
  


In a much better mood, Steve takes the time before his nightly streaming binge to give Bucky a call.

“Hey babe,” Steve says.

_“Steve, how are you, doll?”_

“Oh, you know, living the dream,” Steve says, then gets right to it. “You know I want you back, right?”

It’s silent for a second over the line, then Bucky says. “ _You’re sure?”_

Steve sighs. So Natasha had a point. “I am.”

“ _Because I was selfish, I know that now,”_ Bucky says. “ _Rebecca beat me with a spoon when she heard what I did.”_

“Ouch, one of the wooden ones?”

“ _Stainless steel.”_

“Your family does not fuck around, huh. Yeah Bucky, I’m sure. I’m in this.”

“ _I’m in this too.”_

“If you want to come by…” Steve stops for a moment. Could he really do it? Expose himself like this to Bucky?

Bucky must have taken his sentence as an invitation and not a hesitation, because he exclaims, “ _Of course, any time you’d like. I’m back at work, but things aren’t as busy as they were when we had the large contract to finish.”_

“I’ll text you,” Steve says to give himself more time. “‘Til then, my life is boring. Talk to me about you.”

Month two of recovery finally brings Steve outside, and he’s shocked to find out that the weather had gotten cold behind his back. How dare time pass without his consent!

He and Bucky take walks around the block, a few times a week, catching up with one another. When the weather gets windy, Bucky always offers Steve his sweater, and Steve takes it, letting his body get lost in it. He bets this is what cheerleaders felt like when their jock football boyfriend gave them their school jackets or whatever the fuck goes on in highschool movies. Lately though, Bucky had been a bit resistant to bringing him sweaters, the reason likely Steve has about four of them now that he’s not planning on giving back anytime soon. 

Steve doesn’t understand the issue; Bucky’s welcome to any of his extra-smalls.

The second month also brings the idea of the cane, which his physical therapist recommended. It seems his walk has started to develop out of line, and the cane will help keep him steady. It’s a simple brown wood, and he learns to tolerate having to use it. It takes two sessions of virtual therapy, but he makes progress not feeling shame over it, and over his disabilities in general. He then manages to begrudgingly concede Natasha’s point that maybe it’s okay to have help every once in a while.

He returns to the shop one day, helped by Bucky’s car, and is greeted by a joyous staff who have hung a “Welcome home, Cap!” banner from the back wall. Steve has the stupidest reaction to this and breaks down in tears. He ends up sitting at a table, being served low-carb hot chocolate by Darcy, who then sits down next to him. Across from them, Bucky converses with Pietro in a quiet, rapid language that Steve later learns is Slovak.

“How are things?”

“Running well. People miss you, you know. Customers keep asking for the short guy with the big smile,” Darcy grins.

“I doubt that,” Steve snorts. “How’s the staff?”

“Good,” Darcy says, relaxing back in her seat. “Wade’s weird, but also a good worker. Keeps saying stuff like ‘it’s easy to do your job when you’re never written about.’ Clint is horrid though, please never hire him. Oh, and Peter left for school, and I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Wait, really?” Steve feels a pang in his chest. “I know I was hard on him, but--”

“Oh nothing like that,” Darcy waves him away. “No apparently he’s in the final stages of applying for this intern program with some big shot tech company. The kid loves you to death, Steve.”

“An internship in high school?” Steve lets out a low whistle. “Impressive.

“Apparently the kid’s smart,” Darcy shrugs. “Also gay.”

“Yeah I knew that.”

“He told you?”

“No but… I knew. And how about you?”

“Me?” Darcy shrugs “Well, nothing new here. Two more years in college, then I continue working here because no one is hiring.”

Steve twists his lips. “You’re welcome here as long as you need.”

At the counter, a confused looking man is asking Wanda which river this coffee presumes to be on the best side of.

And without ceremony, Steve, Darcy, Wanda, Sam, Pietro, and Wade, all exclaim, “All of them!”

The man is stunned into silence, but a laugh goes around the room. Business as usual at Commandos, it seems.

Steve’s happy to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secret bonus chapter after this one.
> 
> "The Brown's not going to the superbowl?" Is an American euphemism for failing to have a, uh, bowel movement.
> 
> Please, please don't complain about how long this took.


	14. A Deal with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the end! Boy I love these guys, and hope to come back to them soon.
> 
> Also, I love all the people just learning about the Browns superbowl euphemism. I learned this one from one of the guys at work. I highly recommend to drop this into convos, especially if you are a Cleveland Brown’s fan!

## Chapter 14: The Deal with the Devil

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Bucky says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “For the last time, yes. It’s not like I’ve had massive spinal surgery recently.”

“Don’t like that joke,” Bucky mutters.

Steve tilts his head. “It’s not like you to fret. What’s going on?”

Bucky slumps slightly in the leather seat, putting a wrinkle in his inky black dress shirt. Steve carefully adjusts his own position, keeping his back bone straight purely due to habit now, and watches his boyfriend brood out the limousine window.

“I usually don’t go this long between providing a service and getting paid,” Bucky finally says. The car inches forward a few feet, then Steve hears the sound of the driver laying on the horn, muffled by sound proofing.

“What’s taking Stark so long?” Steve asks as they move another three feet in the late afternoon omni-traffic.

“Stark had an employee kill an executive in his company. The FBI was probing thoroughly, and if a large exchange of funds were to occur, it would be under heavy scrutiny. Should it be caught as Stark is going through an audit, we’d both be jailed.”

“But to have the exchange at an art show of all things?” Steve asks. “I thought this was an underground bunker kind of thing. Or like, a vault in an abandoned bank.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at that, and Steve gives him a ‘fuck do I know?’ look.

“The idea is two-fold,” Bucky says, twisting to face Steve. “One, it’s getting close to the end of the year, and a rich man making what looks like a donation to an art museum will seem like a good tax deduction. Two, you love art, and I love you.”

Steve breaks out into a stupid smile. “You’re impossible, Buck.”

Bucky smiles back and gives him a quick kiss. The car lurches forward again, pulling up to the line of other sleek, black cars that curve around a U shaped road, dropping off wealthy individuals to the aforementioned art show.

“I can tell you’re worried about more than that though,” Steve says after a moment. “Because you’re trying to work with him, right?”

Bucky huffs, annoyed he hadn’t successfully distracted Steve. He adjusts the cuffs on his deep violet suit jacket, so dark it blends into the night casting through the window. “You have to remember that I am not famous, any more so than any other wealthy businessman. My company is not Fortune 500, our stock is not heavily traded. The most I’ve ever appeared in the news was a magazine article on LGBT men in business.”

Steve pulls his green cashmere scarf from his side and wraps it around his neck, tucking it into his silver coat with careful movements.

“We made it this far by staying humble and low to the ground,” Bucky continues. “This is an event that no one would care if I did not attend. I am important enough to be here, but not important enough to be late. I play the game by the rules, and am relatively unimaginative. That being said,” Bucky growls, and pulls rather aggressively at the belt around his coat. “Tony Stark wouldn’t know modesty if it bit him in the ass.”

“Do you think there’s going to be trouble working with him?”

“Some of the family is critical. We work with Stark, we might get put on the map. And that’s worrisome.”

“But?” Steve prods as the car rolls to a final stop, crunching on the dead leaves on the street.

“But... we could do more,” Bucky says, a certain confidence entering his posture. “With this much money and this much reach, I could expand us underneath Stark Industries, touch so many more places then just Russia. And I’m willing to offer our services to help burn the corrupt aspects of his company to the ground.”

“Really?”

“He suspects people are still selling weapons and secrets to both sides of all wars using his own infrastructure. He needs someone who knows how to communicate the language of the underground, who understands the needs of the criminal. _I_ want to use those underground connections and turn them into ways to funnel more children and drugs into the US. We’ll have to come to an agreement, but for now, this show is for us to start that partnership.”

As he explains his plan, Bucky’s voice becomes darker, more sinuous, like all the words coming out of his mouth were covered in lead and intended to hurt.

“You’re so hot when you talk business, babe,” Steve says.

Bucky gives him a once over out of the side of his eye. “We’ll explore that later. For now, we are here. Ready?”

The driver, patiently waiting outside, opens the door at Steve’s direction. Steve balances his cane on the curbside as he exits the car, taking a cold breath of the late fall air. Bucky follows, and offers the driver a two fingered salute before they drive away into the night.

In front of them is a simple red carpet, behind that, an arch opening up until a brightly lit courtyard, stretching back far and wide with yellow-brown trees decorated with lights, piles of leaves at their base. The sidewalk is lined with heat lamps and silver, sparkling decorations. At the far end, the courtyard narrows to a set of steps that lead up to the art museum.

Bucky appears next to him and places a leather gloved hand into Steve’s soft gray one. Steve smiles at him, and bumps his shoulder, and they start down the red carpet.

There are cameramen, and they take a few photos, but Bucky doesn’t turn to pose, and they don’t ask him too.

“No one important comes early,” Bucky explains as they move towards the courtyard entrance. “That’s why I come early.”

Steve convinces Bucky to explore the courtyard a moment. They walk a circle around it, the chilly air filling Steve’s lungs. They walk from heat lamp to heat lamp, observing the decorations. Around them, a few other finely dressed guests mill, dressed similarly in heavy coats and fluffy hats and tightly wound scarves. A particularly vibrant woman has gone in all pink, and her laugh is the loudest thing around, surrounded by a crowd of eager onlookers.

As they finally reach the stairs leading up to the building, Steve grips the handrail tightly and gives the staircase a wry look. His back doesn’t pain him much after recovery, but specific movements like bending and twisting tend to aggravate the injury. He starts up the steps nice and slow, using his cane in his left hand and white knuckling the handrail in his right. He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him, ready to grab in case of failure, but Steve snapping at him for helping when he doesn’t need it for the first month has taught Bucky it’s better to keep his distance.

Steve emerges from the staircase victorious, and Bucky finds his hand again as they head inside the double doors of the magnificent building. Inside is decorated like the out, string lights and fake pine trees covered in pine cones, a magnificent chandelier above. They are blasted with warmth as they enter, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief as a shiver rolls over his skin.

Bucky presents an invitation to the table at the door, and introduces Steve as a plus one. A waiter in a white dress takes their coats and supplies them with a ticket that Bucky tucks into his breast pocket.

The main atrium is mostly empty - they _are_ early - and fits the theme of ‘all white everything’. The floor echoes as Steve’s brand new shoes click against them, the high ceiling mostly glass and old marble. Along a wall is a crackling fireplace, comfy chairs and couches against the walls. In the center it’s empty and clear, a string quartet on a stage above them.

“Isn’t there meant to be art here?” Steve asks, observing the well dressed people milling around and talking with one another.

“The gallery is in the North room.” Bucky points out an archway on the side. “Would you like to grab a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Bucky flags down a passing waiter, who has a tray full of champagne balanced in her hand. Steve snags one and drinks it a tad too fast.

“So, just going to remind you. I’m outclassed here,” Steve says as they settle down on one of the also-white couches. “I’m wearing clothes you bought me, I’m pretty sure I’m going to embarrass you because I don’t know how to dance, or talk to wealthy people, and I spend most of my formative years being a rampant slut and I don’t really know how that translates...” Steve clamps his mouth shut.

Bucky looks bemused. “I’m not expecting you to be my trophy, nor do I expect you to play rich people’s games. I tire of them, actually, think they’re bullshit. And, Stark’s much more of a slut than you are.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up,” Steve says morosely. “We can compare black books - together we could name every gay guy in the Village.”

Bucky’s smiling at him. More subdued than usual, but still there.

“You just want me to embarrass myself,” Steve grouches.

“I want someone to talk to who doesn’t have a stick up their ass,” Bucky says. “And you’ll find that more people are receptive to that here than you think.”

“To what, a stick up their ass? Because I can attest to that,” Steve quips.

Bucky gives him a truly wicked grin this time, and Steve returns it in kind, probably looking like an idiot.

Bucky says, sipping his champagne, “Mr. Stark and I have to be seen together for enough time to have a chat and a transaction. All these other people I would love nothing more than for you to be your Brooklyn self.”

“My _Brooklyn_ self is a gay coffee shop owner that knows sentences with more curses than actual words.”

Bucky smiles at him, and kisses him. “And I love him. So be him.”

“Jeez,” Steve says, looking around. “I think I might need more champagne.”

Steve observes at first.

As people begin to filter in, Bucky begins the art of social interaction. He adopts an aloof manner, a cold, distant tone that it’s oddly sexy in it’s dismissiveness.

The first person he speaks with is a mother with her daughter. They converse in a language Steve has never heard before, and Steve checks out of the conversation after ten seconds, looking instead at the six year old girl, staring at him with wide, brown eyes.

Steve makes silly faces at her, and she giggles, spilling red sauce down her light blue dress. The mother whisks her off quickly after that, and Steve feels vaguely guilty.

Throughout the next hour, a few people deliberately seek Bucky out, giving Steve a passing glance before trying and failing to match Bucky’s cold eyed stare. Steve stays polite but quiet, still feeling like he’s missing a step or five.

They’ve stayed on the couch, and Steve’s perhaps had too much champagne too quickly when the wife of some sort of multi media conglomerate and her son joins them without ceremony.

“Anastasia Brewer,” she says as a way of introduction. “You knew my father.”

“I did.” Bucky has a knack for making any conversation feel like it’s a chore for him to take part in.

Anastasia is undeterred. “I’d like for you to meet my son, Julian. He admires you _so_ much as a successful gay businessman, he hopes he can be just as successful.” Steve raises an eyebrow as a straight haired brunette woman towering over both of them introduces the absolutely drool-worthy man next to her, just as tall but without the stilettos.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes,” Julian says, reaching out a hand to shake. Steve’s second eyebrow meets his first when Julian gives him a long, clear look under his eyelashes. Steve’s seen that look a lot - he’s used it himself.

“What business are you in?” Bucky asks smoothly.

“I’m a model. You can find me on this month’s Calvin Klein catalog,” Julian says.

“I heard Klein models stuff,” Steve says suddenly.

Behind them, a single woman fails to hide a startled snort, perhaps overhearing the conversation. Julian turns his suddenly chilly stare towards Steve, his mother doing the same. “I can see the resemblance,” Steve comments again. He’s nervous under their attention, but it seems that nearly a decade of customer service has made him immune to even beautiful people’s ire.

“And who are you?” Julian asks with the kind of voice Darcy gives to the high school boys that hit on her at the shop.

“This is my partner, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says. His face is as still as a stone.

Julian visibly hesitates, then looks to his mother, as if for guidance. His mother steps forward, gives Steve a slow once over, eyes lingering on the cane in his left hand for a moment, before glancing back to Steve’s face with a look of disbelief.

“And what do you do, Steven?” Anastasia asks as if trying to unravel a mystery.

“I owe a coffee shop in Manhattan,” Steve says.

“Just the one?”

Steve holds his head high, smiles. “Best coffee this side of the river.”

”...I see,” Anastasia says. She turns to Bucky, who is watching the interaction with now visible amusement. “I’m... surprised at the company you choose to keep.”

Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s waist. “Be careful how you speak about my partner.”

The simple warning chilled the air around them by ten degrees, and was enough to get Anastasia to hold her tongue. She gives Bucky a small nod then grabs a confused Julian by the elbow and steers him away.

“Does that happen often?” Steve asks after a moment.

“Klein models do stuff,” Bucky says instead of answering, and Steve laughs.

“You’ve fucked a lot of models, then?” Steve jokes.

“Yes,” Bucky says, and Steve swallows his tongue. “They were a bit... vapid.”

They? Jesus. Bucky had perfect men with perfect proportions, probably never been sick in their life. Probably had straight backs, too, could bend and twist and walk up stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Are you feeling alright?” Bucky asks, crowding Steve’s space with visible concern. “They’re serving food soon, we can sit down.”

“I could sit,” Steve admits, trying to shake off the new wave of self doubt that’s hit him. “I think I found my rhythm with this rich people thing. It’s like being in customer service, except you’re free to insult each other.”

“You have nothing but support from me,” Bucky says. “I just like to watch.”

Steve swallows his insecurity and gives Bucky a once over out of the corner of his eye.

“We will explore that later,” he says, and Bucky doesn’t try to hide his laugh.

Getting off of his feet was a relief. His back still wasn’t a fan of long use. They were joined at the table by a small group of women, who Steve smiled at and attempted to charm, with great success. It was easier than he expected to communicate - apparently rich people still liked a good banter just like anyone else. Steve wasn’t afraid to open his mouth, and he was much better received than he expected.

The plan after food was to head to the art gallery at last. Steve leads Bucky over with probably too much excitement, but Steve’s been secretly incredibly excited to catch a glimpse of this collection before it went public. It’s as he’s working his way over to the art gallery that a loud commotion by the entrance to the main atrium catches both of their attention, causing them both to turn around and look.

Steve knows the suit on his shoulders is expensive. It’s silver, tailored, handmade, thick in a way his old suit jackets have never been. Bucky’s deep violet suit is one that he treats with reverence when he puts it on, and Steve wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was one of the most expensive things in his closet.

They were just as well dressed as anyone else here, and they might as well have been street bums compared to Tony Stark.

The energy of the room kicks up a notch. Bodies and eyes turn towards the door to the museum, an overwhelming number of flashing lights behind him giving him an ethereal glow, flashbulbs dehumanizing him. He looks at no one when he arrives, a woman on each hip, walking with a stride that spoke of years of dance, to the nearby bar where a drink was already waiting for him, served by a trembling waiter. Even Bucky can’t help but observe, stiffening next to Steve slightly as he watches the entrance. The absolute pretentiousness of feigning ignorance in favor of a stiff drink, knowing exactly what his mere presence can do to lift the energy of the room.

“He’s short,” Steve comments.

Bucky snorts loudly; a few people give him dirty looks at the ugly sound. But it breaks the tension, at least on Steve’s end, loosens Bucky up enough to lace their now free hands together.

“Come on,” Bucky says, turning around. “Let’s look at art.”

Steve lets himself be steered away from the atrium, where Stark was slowly being mobbed. “Don’t you need to talk to him?” He asks as they head towards the winding gallery.

“After everyone else has,” Bucky says. “We must wait for him to find us.”

“Don’t know a lot about this kind of stuff,” Steve says, stopping for a moment to study a red and purple painting that makes him think of someone yelling. “But rich people usually don’t find other people, it’s usually the other way around.”

“They do when they owe you an awful lot of money,” Bucky says. “Also, I’m rich too.”

“That you are,” Steve murmurs, running a finger up Bucky’s suit.

They drift and meander through the halls, staying away from the groups of chattering socialites and towards the actual art itself. Bucky is endlessly patient as Steve admires what the others are ignoring, the abstract lines and shapes on canvases contrasted with the whiteness of the room. The pieces were incredibly good, in that unexplainable, gut way that good art is.

As they step from one to another, that gut feeling joins itself with melancholy. A dream deferred rising back to the surface, a familiar longing of picking up a brush and making something that defined a feeling like this.

The one he observes now is placed in the corner of the further room, a thousand shades of green all rolling and spinning across the canvas, rushing, as if being pushed from behind by an invisible force. It rises to his mind the winds of Ireland, the endless greenery. It also is chaotic, exactly as messy as it should be, somehow even _fast_ , despite it being paint on a canvas, as if running away from something being chased. He feels the movement in a sickening rush in his chest, feeling the urge to flee from something he can’t see.

Bucky gently touches his back, and Steve visibly jolts, his heart pounding in his ears.

“What do you see?” Bucky says lowly in his ear.

Steve takes a deep breath, lest his heart decide to give up. “What do _you_ see?”

“Hm,” Bucky straightens up. “Green. Never really understood abstract works.”

“It reminds me of independence,” Steve says. “And freedom. And how messy that process is, how hard it is to keep going. And the risk of moving too fast, but how if you stop, if you ever stop, you lose it.”

Bucky is quiet after that.

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles.

“I am fascinated by your mind,” Bucky says. “Because all I see is green.”

“I think,” Steve says. “I need some air.”

In the courtyard outside, they gather under a heating tower. Bucky’s procured them both an apple cider, and Steve sips it, each shot of warmth helping to still his unease. There’s no one else out there but a frantically kissing couple disappearing behind the far wall, and a few waiters tidying around them, which is where Tony Stark finds them.

“You know, it’s a lot warmer inside, right?”

Steve can’t quite hide his shock when he sees the man. He’s in a black suit, something ridiculously expensive and well fitting, and designed to show that the wearer is better than everyone else around them. It’s artfully disheveled, as if it’s been thrown on at the last minute, adding to the illusion of a spoiled rich boy. But he’s shorter than Steve expected, a few inches taller than Steve actually, and though his bluster and confidence is unparalleled, something about it occurring this close to Steve’s face makes him feel like it’s a bit of a show. In fact, it’s in Tony’s eyes he sees it, a little bit of something dead where it once was alive.

Steve remembers reading about Afghanistan, and his gut sinks.

“You’re late.” Bucky says.

“Of course I’m late.” Stark says. “Who’s the boy?”

Steve’s voice unsticks itself from his throat long enough to say, “Man.”

“Gotta say, did _not_ expect that voice on that body,” Tony gives him an up and down look, eyes flicking to his cane a moment, before focusing on Bucky.

“You ready, Capone?”

Bucky looks vaguely irritated for a moment, then turns his back on Stark to look at Steve. He strokes a finger through Steve’s hair gently, then leans down to kiss him with warm lips for a long moment.

“I’ll be back, sweetheart,” Bucky says. “Will you be alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Steve whispers back, and gives him what he hopes is a comforting smile. Bucky gives him one last brush of fingers through his hair, then turns back to Stark, who looks bemused and impatient.

“Cute,” Stark deadpans. “Follow me.”

Steve watches them leave, headed back inside through the open doors, and down hallways he doesn’t think they’re allowed to go through. Steve shivers, suddenly alone, and heads back inside, looking around the suddenly crowded atrium uncertainly.

He eventually finds his way back to that green painting, entitled ‘Wave,’ and gets lost in it again.

A pointed cough jostles him, and he’s annoyed to find Julian with his arms at his side, looking down at Steve from six foot something, irritated.

“Can I help you?” Steve asks, tone a bit more clipped than it should be.

“I don’t stuff,” Julian says stiffly.

“That was a cheap shot,” Steve responds. “I’m sorry.”

It’s silent for a moment, the two men eyeing one another.

“How did you get him to notice you? Lots of men have been attempting to catch his eye,” Julian says. “You will be the envy of many here, Mr. Barnes has not brought a partner around for quite some time.”

Steve feels a little funny at that. “I... well, at first I made a complete fool of myself,” Steve says, thinking of that first meeting. “But he stays with me because... because I’m kind,” Steve says. “When many others weren’t.”

Julian looks at him uncertainly.

“How old are you?” Steve asks him suddenly.

“I’m eighteen,” He says, and Steve feels the weight of time on his own back. He shifts his mindset from a jealous lover to an actual adult.

“Do you work outside of modelling? What are your hobbies? Where do you see yourself in five years?” He asks at once.

“What is this, an interview?” Julian says, warily.

“No, just...” Steve twists his lips. “I’m sure that very few people have ever said no to you in your life. But men like Bucky... they aren’t just looking for another pretty face. Which yours is completely beautiful, but my point is... a relationship lasts when you have a genuine connection with someone. It’s so much more important than just being with someone with money and power.”

Julian doesn’t seem convinced. “So, you pay for your own nice clothes?” He nods at his suit. “A designer label seems to be a bit much for a small business owner.”

Steve huffs, letting the insult roll off of him. “He buys me gifts, but he doesn’t buy my respect. I make my own money. I paid for my own medical bills,” Steve says, waggling the cane. “I have my own life and my own choices.”

“Mom says that doesn’t happen except in the movies,” Julian says.

Steve shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out how true that is.”

Julian holds his gaze for a moment, then turns away without another word. Steve’s not sure how that interaction truly went, but hopes perhaps Julian will learn to think outside his mother’s eyes.

“Things go okay?” Bucky asks, coming up from behind him, and Steve turns quickly to him. Tony Stark is nowhere in sight, but Bucky seems to be in a positive mood so all must have gone well. He’s never felt more like the ‘boss’ wife’ until today.

“Oh he’s fine.” Steve waves it off. “He’s young, trying to figure things out. And really, really, attractive.”

“Should I be jealous?”

Steve snorts. “Of me window shopping? Babe, you know who I’m going home with,” Steve says, and he pushes himself on his toes to give him a kiss. It deepens quickly, goes a little further than perhaps acceptable, and when Steve pulls back he’s pink and slightly panting, Bucky’s eyes a little too vivid.

“Speaking of going home,” Steve says, swallowing. “Things go well?”

“Very well,” Bucky confirms.

“What’s ‘very well’ mean?” Steve asks.

“Very, _very,_ well,” Bucky says slowly.

“So,” Steve shifts in his pants, then looks around at the dwindling masses of people surrounding them. “We going?”

Bucky grins. “After you.”

**Extra**

In an office deep in the administrative section of the museum, two men sit to discuss business.

“So that?” Stark quirks an eyebrow. “What a shitshow, right?”

“Not my fault.” Bucky keeps his responses curt.

“No,” Stark admits. “Not your fault. No one’s fault, except maybe mine for trusting my friends. Now look at me, philandering with criminals. You know Gandhi never actually said ‘an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?’ What a waste.”

Bucky crosses an ankle over his knee, thumping his finger impatiently against the cushioned chair he’s sitting in. Stark is... showboating perhaps. A glass of whiskey is in his hand, but none of it is on his breath. His swayed movements and general countenance were nothing but a carefully crafted lie.

Stark waves his hand, sitting on the desk in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll get your money, don’t worry it’s on the way. You run a pretty clean operation. Swept up loose ends, got a rather loyal following.”

“We are fair employers.” Stark likes to talk a lot, and while Bucky usually finds that to be an advantage in customers, right now, it’s grating. Partially due to knowing that Steve is waiting for him back in the gallery.

“More fair than us,” Tony shrugs. “We own everything our employees own. Got a good vacation plan though. And I heard the cafeteria got an upgrade. I wouldn’t know, I don’t eat at cafeterias. Or take vacations.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Stark?” Bucky finally snaps.

“Tony, please,” Tony says. “Look, my company is dirty. I don’t trust it anymore. I don’t trust my contractors, my competitors, the government, any of it. I want you to help me clean house.”

“We are a small operation,” Bucky lies. “That is how we have survived for as long as we have.”

“I’m not asking you to clean up the Department of Defense, just my company,” Tony reasons.

“Your company holds _how_ many contracts with the DOD?”

“Just—listen.” Tony finally puts down the glass, and Bucky thinks he might finally be getting somewhere. “When I was over there, I saw bombs and guns with my name on it, being used against civilians. Notice the lack of nationality there—against _civilians_ , on both sides. I finally saw war for what it is, a destructive, money making force that causes death for the sake of money and ego and nationalism.”

“So you are now burdened with knowledge, and wish to offload some of it onto me.”

“Less offload, more…” Stark gestures vaguely. ”...utilize. I’m just one man, but you are a whole network of people. Help me clear my name, and I’ll pay you back in spades.”

“You are a bad negotiator.”

“This is more than just business to me.”

Bucky tilts his head. “You are asking me to take on the government.”

“The congressman’s been replaced by another congressman with a similar agenda,” Tony says, then he meets Bucky’s eyes square on, tone darkening. “Every time we try to cut one off, two seem to take their place.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens, because that phrasing was very, very interesting.

“You don’t think...”

“I do.”

“If that’s true, then the implication cannot be ignored,” Bucky says. He’s not sure if he believes this - he would have heard something. He’ll need to double down on his sources, check for moles, speak with his parents before they leave.

“It can’t. So you’re with me on this?”

“Money,” Bucky says.

“Right.” Tony sighs, pulling something from his pocket. “Because who cares if people are dying, need to get to the money,” he says under his breath.

Bucky doesn’t say a word. Stark takes a device that looks like a rather futuristic phone and taps it twice. Bucky receives a message. On his phone he sees that a sizable transfer from a nameless account to one of Bucky’s offshores, routed through a series of encrypted channels.

“Now, we talk about money for this,” Bucky says, tucking his phone away and leaning back in the chair. “Because if what you’re saying is true, that we are up against Hydra, then my price has greatly increased.”

Tony gives him a wry grin. “Figured you say that.”

Bucky tilts his head. "Let's begin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist! Thank you to everyone who has followed this story from the beginning, everyone who has left a comment or a kudo or a secret, second kudo. I'll try to get back to your comments on this chapter, and would love to hear if you liked what you read.
> 
> You can find my mulitifandom tumblr [here](https://bourneblack.tumblr.com)
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](https://bourneblack.tumblr.com)


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